Of light and Shadow
by AuronLives
Summary: Two children were born that night: One an angel, one the image of the Phantom himself. Raoul has only one choice: Christine must never know about the second... rnBased off mixture of Leroux, Kay, and Webber.
1. An Angel and a Phantom

Yes…you guessed it…ANOTHER FIC!!!! Wow. Anyway, you can count on my other ones still to be updated at the most random times. I am completely at the mercy of my muse [Muse holds up Punjab lasso] Me: GAAAAHHH!!! [Hand at the level of my eyes]

**Since I am most obviously busy, Erik steps in to write my disclaimer.**

**Erik: Ummm…..Why am I here? Oh yeah! I don't own Phantom of the Opera! I mean, wait a second….I _am_ the Phantom of the Opera!**

Auronlives: [back] And I am the lowly Phantom of the Auditorium! Back, or I shall bonk you with my flashlight! I don't own Phantom of the Opera either. Sigh.

**More A/N- this story is based on a little bit o' Kay, Leroux, Lloyd Webber, and my own personal interpretation. P.S.- I hated Kay's ending, didn't you? Her Christine sucked. So I have basically remedied the continuing part with this story! Behold the new misfortune which has befallen our dear characters! Review!!!! Constructive criticism embraced. Flame all you want, I'll only write more to piss you off. **

RAOUL

I held Christine's hand as she sweated and struggled. She gasped, and I felt her grip tighten like a clamp on my hand, but I did not let go. I would never let go of my Christine again.

It pained me to see her suffer, even though the midwife had warned us it would be a difficult birth. She was almost certain there would be twins, and had warned us with an ashen face that the second born only had a fifty percent chance of survival. Christine had announced her conception glowingly, however, and hadn't let this revelation worry her. She would laugh gaily every time she suffered an onslaught of kicks from the growing babies inside her, saying that she could not believe they were not both as strong as they could be. She had been the happiest I'd ever seen her in the months that had passed since our marriage. She spoke of Erik as though he were no more than a fleeting fantasy, a dream evolved from a childhood tale.

In a way, I think I felt more responsibility toward the poor wretch than she did. The way he had just…let us go. The way he had given his love to me in the hopes that she would be happy. And even though just the thought of him sickened me, I felt obliged to see his hopes fulfilled. I could not let that poor monster down, somehow. Lately, when I was plagued by contradicting memories of the incident, I even felt myself desiring to talk to him, confide my feelings in him, but I would shake those thoughts out of my head as quickly as they came. The Opera Ghost was dead to me, and it was better that way.

I remembered, with stunning lucidity, the conversation I had had with Christine the night she declared herself pregnant. She had seemed perfectly happy, everything a proud new mother should be. I wish I could have said the same for myself, but there was something wearing on my mind. I decided, against my instincts, that it would be best to put these thoughts at rest by confiding in her. "Christine," I had said nervously, "I know this is a highly personal question, but I feel like I can ask you anything…not that you have to answer, if you don't want to…"

"Raoul," she had interrupted, concernedly, cutting off the tail of my unnecessary babble, "What's wrong? Does it have something to do with the baby? Oh, Raoul, you know you can ask me anything; you're my husband, for heaven's sake. What is it?"

"I was just wondering…is this baby mine…or his?" There was no need to specify who I meant. Christine's face grew dark, and I hastily apologized for my impertinence.

"No," she said distantly, "No, don't apologize. I haven't thought…Oh, Raoul, I don't know! My G-d, it could be either! I just don't know…" she trailed off, seemingly lost in thought. I was just about to comfort her when she snapped from her trance and brightened, as though a spark had just caught in her head. "There's no need to know! I'll just assume he's yours, we'll never know for sure, but no matter! He will know no father but you!" And, seemingly unconcerned, had rolled over and gone to sleep. There was no dampening her mood lately.

But I could not be as easily put off. I had put that shadow behind me, forever, I thought. And now, I was seeing the possibility of having it born again. What if it was his child? What if he took after his father in every way? What if, instead of moving on, I had to stare my past in the eyes every day? It would be like having Erik's face and constantly being surrounded by mirrors. Could I do that, and still manage to keep my Christine happy? I wasn't sure.

And I had no-one to ask, now that my brother was dead. His body had been found by the lake; no doubt that monster's doing, but I felt no anger toward Erik for it. If anything, I blamed Philippe, for not being able to restrain himself from nosing into my affairs. He never could stand to leave me to my own devices. Even though I was a perfectly capable sailor, he had felt the need to use his influence to find me work, instead of allowing me to procure it on my own, like any other man. I think I could have gotten the same position without his help, but now I'll never know. Perhaps that's why I retired from sailing. Not because I wanted to be a family man, but because I felt I had not earned my rank by my own accord.

At any rate, here I was, not in the middle of an ocean, but in the middle of a bedroom, drowning in the dry, labouring breaths of my poor wife, as she struggled to bring two children into the world that might not even be mine.

Add that I had been here for nine hours now, and you may begin to see my frustration.

"Ssshh, madame, don't fret. Keep breathing…that's it. He's almost out, just a little longer."

Christine squealed at bit, and then let her breath loose in a slow, controlled manner that reminded me of how she warmed up before singing. No doubt Erik had taught her that. No! Why could I not escape from my thoughts of him? Had he, when he surrendered Christine's mind, in turn grabbed hold of mine? Was he going to use my guilt somehow, was this all just part of his plan? I shook myself a bit. I was overreacting. The revelation that the baby might not be mine had been more disturbing than I had at first realized.

"Just a bit more…there!" The midwife uttered a little exclamation of triumph, as the baby slid into her hands at last. "Oh, he's a beautiful baby," she cooed, handing him to Christine, who drew him close to her breast. And he was a beautiful baby. All doubt was removed from my mind as Christine relinquished her vice-grip on my hand to stroke the child's head. Nothing as perfect as this child could come from that monster. He must have been my child after all. I leant down to give him a little cuddle of my own.

No sooner had I touched him than Christine grabbed my hand even more tightly, if that was actually possible, than before. Her contractions had begun again. "All right, madame, stay calm, it's time for child number two. Just do exactly as before, and everything should go perfectly."

If Christine's gasping had been terrible before, it was nothing compared to the unearthly wails that were issuing forth from her now. The midwife's kind words of encouragement and instruction were completely lost amid her cries. The birth was longer and obviously more painful than most second twins, and it wasn't until at least two hours later that the baby was delivered into the midwife's expectant hands.

She looked as though she were about to cry out. All of the colour drained from her face, and her hand flew instinctively to her mouth, almost dropping the baby in the process.

"What?" I inquired nervously. "What is it? Is it dead?"

"Let me see my baby!" Christine managed to gasp, just before losing consciousness. The midwife continued to stare at the child.

"Well?!" I exclaimed impatiently, wondering what on earth it could possibly be.

"No, monsieur," she said, slowly. "No monsieur, she is not dead." Without another word, she deposited the baby in my arms, and went to assist with the afterbirth. Sensing that my presence was no longer needed, I left, the child still in my arms. What could possibly be wrong?

I raised the corner of the blanket, and felt as though all of my insides had melted together. The face of the child…I could recognize that face anywhere…

It was His.

I felt a pressing need to sit down, and hurriedly helped myself to the contents of the decanter sitting on the table next to me. So these _were_ his children after all. I hardly noticed the child start to cry, tentatively at first, but then, receiving no result, began to crescendo slowly until her sobs were almost deafening. I rocked her mechanically, lost in my own thoughts.

I could not allow this. I didn't want Christine to bear the burden of having to raise this child, and I doubted our capabilities anyway. Hadn't we both been repulsed by His face? I didn't want the child to have to live with that revulsion surrounding her. I could think of only one person who might be able to raise her. And it was the very man whose face she bore, and whom I had decided to erase from my mind forever.

The midwife left, eyeing the bundle in my arms and giving me a sympathetic look as she bade me farewell, and informed me that Christine was now sleeping peacefully with the other child still clutched to her breast. I knew immediately what I had to do. I called to one of my servants. "When Christine wakes, do as the midwife instructed you. If she asks about the other child or me, tell her that it was a stillbirth and I have gone to arrange the burial immediately. Tell her I love her," I added weakly, "And that I shall return as soon as possible. Understand?" The servant nodded, and I left, without even a cloak or a hat, treading the road to the train station unconsciously. All I could think about was the child, and the task ahead of me.

Some time later, the train stopped in the Paris station. The whole time, I had been staring subconsciously at the poor child, carefully guarding her face from the view of the other passengers. It was laced with haphazard crevices at the bottom of which you could see her blue veins, and was complexioned an odd, sickly, pale shade. She had her father's nose, or lack thereof, and similar twisted lips. Her eyes were slightly sunken in, and the green shade of a fly's back, so that they seemed golden in the half-light. She was just barely recognizable as female.

She was not a complacent child. The entire ride she had writhed and kicked in my grasp, whimpering and flailing blindly, as though trying to push something away. "Ssshh…ssshh," I murmured, trying to soothe her, but she would not be calmed, until finally, near the end of the train ride, she fell asleep.

Still in an almost trance-like state, I carried her down the dark alleyways, across the broad avenues, and finally, up the very stairs of the Paris Opera house. Staring at the doors, I held her protectively. No matter what I did, this hideous, pitiful creature could not win. Either she would spend her days isolated and hidden from the world underground, or exposed and terrorized by it above. I sighed, looking at her once more, and rocked her gently. I love the girl, I realized, but I can't give her what she needs. I would have to surrender her to her true father.

I tried the doors, and by some twist of fate, to my great surprise, they opened without protest, allowing me free admission. No doubt there was somebody still here, other than Erik, or else those great doors would have never stood unlocked. I would have to be stealthy.

I crept in, but it seemed to me that each tiptoeing step I made echoed deafeningly throughout the building. Surely Erik would hear me down in the fifth cellar! But, in contradiction to my thoughts, I remained undetected.

Carefully, I retraced the steps I had taken with the Persian to the third cellar. There, I picked up an iron table leg that had been part of a set for some opera, and tucked it under my arm. I knew I would fall into Erik's torture chamber, and was prepared to smash my way out if necessary.

I pushed the stone aside, picked up the child from where I had set her down to accomplish this, and sighed as I looked down the hole. If I remembered correctly, it was a long way down. And this time, there was no Persian to catch me, and keep me from smashing the already frail creature I held in my grasp flat. I turned around. Hunting among the set pieces, I found a length of rope. Once again, fate seemed to be with me. Hastily, I fashioned a kind of crude harness, allowing me to lower both baby and weapon together. When I was sure she had made it safely to the floor, I let myself drop as far away from her as the small hole would allow.

Mercifully, I landed on my feet, and did not crush the child, but I had not removed my boots this time, and made a noise to waken all of Paris if it had been sounded above ground. I immediately sensed that someone in the house was alerted to my presence.

I waited a few seconds. It seemed he had chosen to ignore me for the time being. So I called out into the darkness, toward what my best guess was the correct wall. "Erik! Erik, let me in, or I will have to tear down this wall! I have not come unarmed this time!"

"Oh, I see the proud husband has come to finish me off at last. No matter. I'd have died of my own accord soon anyway," came a voice from behind the wall, slightly to my right. There was a note of bitterness in his tone that scared me, but I knew I had to do this. I adjusted my position accordingly, and prepared to plead like I'd never pleaded before.

"No! Erik, listen to me, man! It's not that, I swear to you! I swear to you upon the one I love!"

"Well then, what is it? Answer me, Chagny! You try my patience!"

"I need…" I exhaled, preparing myself for what I had to admit. "I need your help."

For once, the old devil sounded surprised. "My help? Help of what nature?"

"I could tell you, if we only stood face to face."

He laughed. "My dear Vicomte, you are hardly in a position to strike up a bargain. Don't you know that with one flip of a switch, I could have you at my mercy? Have you learned nothing over the course of your acquaintance with me?"

"Yes," I said, trying not to choke. "I know. But I trust you."

He seemed a bit taken aback at this response. I took advantage of his silence to add, "Erik, I do not grudge you. And I made sure that Christine has been the happiest she's ever been these past months."

"Christine…" he muttered distantly, his manner changing completely with the mention of that name. "Oh, Christine…"

I let him have his moment, while I busied myself with groping around in the dark for the baby. I found her, and loosed her from her bonds gently, lest she wake up and start crying, at which point I would lose the one card I had in my hand against Erik: his curiosity. But, luckily, she remained silent, sleeping as deeply as that iron table leg, exhausted from the day's effort of being born. It would be the deepest and longest she would ever sleep in her life.

When I had completed this task, and was once again clutching the unfortunate child against my chest, I decided to speak again. "Erik…" I said softly. "Erik please…"

I heard motion in the next room, the turning of a key, and an invisible door opened roughly in the direction I was facing. I saw Erik, imposing, black-clad, and masked as usual, gesture wordlessly for me to follow him. He closed the door behind me, and led me to a couch, bidding me to sit down. He dutifully took up a position opposite me.

"You have great courage, Chagny, I'll give you that. It is certainly a commendable quality that deserves to be rewarded. So here you are. And what is so important that you would risk your neck to talk to me, if all is obviously well with Christine? Does it have anything to do with that bundle in your arms?" He gestured carelessly toward the baby that I still held as tightly as though she would fall from my grasp at the slightest breeze. I started, unaware that he'd noticed it. He hadn't rested his eyes on it, as far as I had seen. I sighed, for what felt like the hundredth time that day. I had sighed a lot. I imagined that I was getting quite good at it.

"It has everything to do with it," I replied.

"Well? No need to be so dramatic, boy! Just go on!"

"This belongs to you," I said softly, and reluctantly placed the baby in his arms. Sensing the change in the one who held her, she promptly woke up and began to cry.

"A baby?!" Erik uttered, sounding quite alarmed. "But…I don't understand…"

I set my lips in a grim line. "Look at her," I said. "You will."

Cautiously, he drew back the blanket, as though doing so would trigger a huge explosion. He started at the site of the face, and I noticed that he seemed to be in conflict about whether to stare, or to snap his gaze away. He looked up at me slowly, all of the traces of malice that were in his eyes before gone. "Quite a chip off of the old stone, isn't she," he said, half sarcastically, half seriously. I looked away. I had trained myself to look upon that baby's face without horror, but I could not train myself to look at the grief I saw in Erik's eyes, not if it sat before me for a hundred years.

"I told the maid to tell Christine she was dead," I said softly, still not daring to look, focusing on the child's face instead, as Erik ran his thin fingers along its mutated contours. "She was a twin, and the other child was perfect. He'll spare Christine from a lot of grief."

"I'll see to it that she remains dead," Erik replied in a preoccupied tone. "You have nothing to worry about from this child. She will stay out of your family's happy life as long as I live. And it seems I have been cursed to live a long, long time."

"No," I said sadly, finally bringing myself to look him in the eyes. He seemed surprised by my tone. "No. It isn't that. I don't fear her, and I don't hate her. It's true she is hard to look upon, but that's not the reason I'm giving her to you." The child had hushed, but was fully awake, and staring at Erik with her wide, greenish eyes. It was only then that I noticed a tiny patch of skin on her face, beginning below the hinge of her jaw, crossing the very corner of her greatly misshapen lips, and ending just before her chin that was normal, and free of deformities. Instead of softening her appearance, like you would think it would, it only made the rest of her face look worse by contrast. "I don't think she belongs with Christine and me. She would only trouble Christine, and be met with scorn by everyone. I think you may be the only one suitable to raise her." There. I said it.

I was surprised to see pity in Erik's eyes. This was a side of him I'd never even glimpsed. "You're right, of course," he said, with a calm that was almost infuriating to me. Here I was, ready to burst into tears, and he was cool and collected. I couldn't give in to him. Even in this moment of rare understanding, our unspoken rivalry was still very much alive. So, I forced back my tears as I uttered, "I love her."

"I know," he said simply.

"Could I visit her sometimes?"

Erik thought for a minute. "I suppose. But she can't know who you are. Christine and anyone connected to her must be as dead to this child as she is to her. You can pay her a visit on her birthday, but only then. We don't need a disaster beyond our imagination to occur." I was sure he smiled a bit as he said the last part. I did.

He shook my hand. "Now, monsieur, I believe you know your way out. You'd better use it, before I begin to feel murderous urges. You are, after all, my greatest rival."

"And you are mine," I said. "Goodbye Erik."

"I will see you in a year," he replied coldly, as though a year was nowhere near long enough, and the odd door shut behind me.

**Well, what did you think? Love it, hate it? Review!!!!! If you leave me a helpful review, I will be grateful forever!!! Next chapter will be from Erik's perspective. **


	2. Broken Wings

A/N- Thank you to my reviewers!!!!!! You rock my socks.

SteerpikeSister- glad you liked it!!!! I hate phanfics that mindlessly bash Raoul. He really isn't all that bad.

drellnco- Thanks. Sorry about that, I should have been more specific. I just read all three versions over, and I muddled them together quite a bit with very little explanation. So, yep, Christine slept with Erik, but in my version of events Raoul didn't follow her. I'm basically following Kay's version of events (basically, mind you), but using Leroux's characterizations of Christine and Raoul. Raoul is upset, but he doesn't show it because he doesn't want to worry Christine. I see your point there, though. However, Raoul has pretty much accepted the fact that they could be Erik's kids already…sort of like he does with his kid in the end of the Kay book (yes, I remember what I said about Leroux, but I'm fickle). Oh, yeah, and Erik is not dead yet, obviously, but he's kind of waiting to die. Sucks for him, now he can't. As for the friendliness between them…I see your point there as well…but explaining why I chose to do it that way: -it wouldn't do for the plot at all to have Erik kill Raoul () lol. –This chapter will give you more insight into Erik's odd behavior. This is an exceptional situation, so I would imagine he would behave oddly. THANKS FOR THE ADVICE!!!!!!! I'll be very careful to make Erik explain himself in this chappie. People who really read like you are hard to come by, so thanks again.

Opera Ghost 1881- Thanks!!! See above about Erik and Raoul.

ChildcalledNothing- Thanks!!!

Liallynne (Julia)- No!!! Anything but that!!! ANYTHING!!!! (P.S. –he's still in France anyway)

Anyone else- My title sucks muffins, so if you have a better idea for the title of this story, PLEASE e-mail me, and if I like it, I'll use it.

Erm…I think that's it. So anyway…

ERIK

I watched him go, grudgingly. He should have been thankful my hands were full. I may not have been responsible for what they might have done otherwise.

Yet, he seemed to have grown up since our last encounter. I was surprised that he would even dare to come down here, much less land in my torture chamber and demand my immediate audience. Much less make the decision he had made.

Since he had left with Christine, I had felt oddly deflated. Not devoid of emotion or pity as when I heard that conversation on the rooftop, which was still burned into my memory, just devoid of the will to do…anything. Nadir took me for dying, and came to take care of me nearly every day. I decided not to correct him. Deceiving him was much easier than attempting to explain how I felt to him.

And then, she had come back. I had not expected her to; I had not expected her lover to allow it. I would not have. So I was obviously shocked when Nadir led her into my room, explaining to her that I was dying. I hated to mislead Christine, but what other choice did I have? She was overcome with grief and remorse when she saw me in such a state. And she did what no other woman would ever have done with me. And I, willing to go to any lengths to have just a bit of that beautiful soul, kept up my charade of the poor, dying victim, cursing my inability to resist my own desire all the while, yet never contemplating the consequences of such an action.

And here was the consequence, writhing and screaming in my arms.

But now I was getting ahead of myself. I sat down, still feeling as though I had just been dealt a great physical blow, and attempted to calm the child and collect the rest of my thoughts.

I had let Christine go, of course. I knew it was the best thing I could do for her. What she had done with me had not been out of love, but out of guilt, and out of pity, and I had learned long ago the difference between those emotions. She would only truly be happy with her Vicomte. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I had forced her to stay. If I had to look upon her every day, staying dutifully by my side, out of pity. No, I would die more honourably than that, and I would not deny the woman I loved her happiness.

I told her that she had made the right decision, that all I would want for her was for her to live out the rest of her days in complete and utter happiness, and not to grieve for me, but not to forget me. "I will always be your angel," I had said, "But I could never be your man." And as hard as it was for me, I sent her on her way, feeling oddly fulfilled.

The next morning I ate for the first time in days.

Nadir wondered at this so-called "miraculous recovery", but I could not agree. I had recovered nothing. I was just dutifully carrying on for the sake of Christine's peace of mind. I did not play. I did not build. I didn't do anything really, save for live: perform the bodily functions of eating, sleeping, and using the privy, and endure Nadir's constant interviews, most of them starting with, "I don't know Erik, you just don't seem quite right to me lately…"

Damned right I didn't! I didn't seem "quite right" to myself! I felt deadened and hollow, like a rotting corpse that had forgotten to die. And then, I had heard _his_ voice. The voice of my greatest rival, right inside my home. And I didn't just feel the customary hatred I had expected. I felt as though the blood that had been sitting idle in my veins had begun to flow again at last. I felt _alive_, for the first time in a long while. And perhaps that is one of the reasons I didn't flip the switch and do away with him right then. Because he gave me something to care about, for the first time since Christine left. Even if it was hatred, it was better than emptiness.

He had surprised me with his newfound courage. I wasn't quite sure to how react. He was no longer Christine's sniveling devotee, but a real man now, who had enough audacity to face his greatest rival, the darkest shadow in a life that had been bathed with sunshine, in my own territory. My instincts warned me that what he had to say was important, and I would regret it if I killed him. And I couldn't perform such an injustice toward by beloved Christine. Oh, how great it had been to _think_ again! To feel like myself!

Anyway, he had shown his courage. I decided to allow him the privilege of talking to me. I was also testing myself. Testing myself to see if I could hold my temper. It was a reckless thing to do, but I did it, purely in the blind joy of being able to function properly again.

I spoke him in the cold, formal manner that I had grown accustomed to using with all but a select few, glad to be in control again, not shying away from questions, but asking them!

And then he had given me the baby. Whatever I had expected, it hadn't been that. Why would he give me this child? How did he even know it was mine? A million questions ran through my mind, as I fought to keep myself composed. What could this possibly be?

And then, I lifted the blanket, and stared at the answer. My heart had risen at the prospect of having something, anything that could remind me of my Christine. It promptly sank, until I feared it would rupture my stomach, when I saw that face. The child would not remind me of Christine. She would only remind me of myself.

I stared at her twisted, malformed features in horror for a second. Is this how my mother had felt when she had first looked upon me? I understood now.

And as soon as those thoughts came into my head, I was ashamed of them. I had done this pitiful girl the great injustice of giving her life, and now it was more than my duty to protect her. How could I have just gone and gotten Christine pregnant, never thinking that I could bring another monster like me into the world? I had really done it this time. If there had been any hope for my sad soul before, there was certainly none now. I would burn in hell for this crime of crimes. For forcing life upon this poor child. She had only horror and misfortune before her. I knew that better than anyone.

Killing her would be doing her a great favour, yet I could not bring myself to do it. I felt a burning empathy toward her, and a sudden determination to help her. To mend her broken wings, even though I knew she could never fly. And the Vicomte…he loved her. She was not his child, and she was only a day old, but he had spent that entire day with her, and she had obviously grown on him. Sometimes, I just could not understand other people. He had met me with revulsion, yet he loved the child that bore my likeness? It made no sense. And yet, I did not doubt his words. I would protect her for him, just as he would protect Christine for me. It seemed a fair contract, and removed any question of a debt between us. We were square.

Once the initial shock began to wear off, though, my hatred came back to me. I made a hasty bargain with him, allowing him to visit the child once a year, and had ushered him out of my house before I could do something…regrettable. And here I was, alone with the child that I would have to raise. The little mirror from which I could not escape. I would have to deal with the repulsiveness of my own face every day.

Unless…no. I could not bring myself to make her wear a mask. Not yet, anyway. When I was a child, hadn't I hated it? Hadn't I hated the way it wore at my skin and stifled me? Yet I had learned to love the protection of the mask- the magic mask that my mother had told me would keep the monster in the mirror away.

I knew she would inevitably need the same protection, but I couldn't trust myself to decide when. For the first time in years, I needed help. I could not do this on my own. I had never been ashamed to ask for help before, but suddenly, I resisted the urge with all my being. Who would know better what the child needed than I? But then, look at what I had become, and what she would inevitably become as well, if she had no other influence. Who would prevent her from making the same mistakes that I made?

As if in answer to my question, I heard a knock on the door. Nadir, undoubtedly, on his routine morning visit. How many hours had past since Chagny had left? I didn't know. I had lost track of time in my state of dutiful continuation, and I felt a sudden overwhelming desire to know what time it was, what day it was. How many months had gone by since I had played the organ? How many months had I been such a pitiful, detestable sack of bones? Part of me did not want to know. I would simply have to pick up where I left off before love had muddled my senses.

He knocked again, harder and more anxiously this time. I sighed, and then snarled, "Patience, Daroga! I'm coming, I'm coming!" I opened the door for him, leaving the baby on the couch, and he came in, looking relieved enough that I was still alive to throw his arms around me. Of course, he knew me too well to think that such a gesture did not risk a good deal of his physical well-being, and so he refrained.

"Erik," he said, "You scared me! I thought you…weren't coming."

I sighed. I had put this confession off long enough. "Nadir, there's nothing wrong with my health. I was wasting my time brooding over something I could never have. I'm fine now."

He frowned, "And what brought about this sudden change of heart?" All of his old suspicion was back again, and I managed to lift my self from my shame long enough to be amused.

"Always suspecting something, you are. Always the Daroga."

"Erik, don't play games with me, what is it? Because I know it's something!"

The baby decided that this would be the opportune moment to realize I had put her down, and began to cry. I swear she knew exactly what was going on, the little demon. I sighed and went to her, while Nadir stood back, gaping. "A child?! Erik, what are you doing?"

"What? I don't even have the right to have a child anymore?" I said, feigning offence, purposely bating him.

"Do you expect me to believe a stork dropped her on your doorstep?"

"Oh no," I said, hiding behind my sarcasm once again, "Not a stork. A viscount."

"Erik!" Nadir looked suddenly alarmed.

"Oh, calm down! It was fully his decision. I didn't harm the man! I didn't even threaten him!"

"But…why?" said Nadir, with all the puzzlement that I had felt when I had first heard of the Vicomte's decision.

"Come here," I said, motioning for him to look at her face. He did, and I read comprehension dawning in all his features. He reacted as I had hoped he would.

"Erik, you can't do this alone. I'm going to help you."

I could hardly keep myself from smiling, as I insisted, "Don't be stupid! Who would know better than I would how to raise a deformed child?"

"That is exactly what I'm afraid of," he said, pointedly, "You have to raise a _child, _not a _deformed_ child. You have to treat her as you would any other girl, and that I don't expect you to be able to do."

This remark surprised me, and I knew now more than I had before how badly I was in need of his help. "Very well, Daroga, but if she ever comes to hurt, you'll be the first I blame."

He sighed. "She's Daae's child, I presume."

"Yes," I answered softly. He let that matter rest.

"What did the Vicomte tell her?"

"He told her that the girl was dead," I replied. "There was another…a twin. A perfect little angel, for the perfect little parents." I smiled at the child with rough affection. "We demons have to stick together."

Nadir shook his head incredulously. "Erik, are you sure that you can do this?"

"I've always been able to do anything I set my sights on," I said. "Hopefully, she won't prove me wrong."

"She's already proving you wrong. You've got my help, but you're going to need a woman's help as well. No matter how brilliant you may be, you're still a man."

I knew exactly who to go to for that. Mademoiselle Perrault, though I've never been sure if she liked me, had always been kind to me, and she had always seemed to know what to do with me, even when my mother did not. I knew I could count on her, if she was still alive and unmarried. And if nothing else, she would surely come out of fear of me. "I know someone. I'll write her a letter sending for her as soon as you leave. She was a friend of my mother's, and I always respected her when I was a child."

Nadir looked uncertain. "Will she come?" he wondered.

"If she is still alive and unmarried, I think she will come," I responded.

"I hope so, for both our sakes," said Nadir, attempting to make me smile. It worked. "So," he said, gesturing at the baby, "Does she have a name?"

I thought carefully for a few minutes before replying, "Etoile. Etoile Reza."


	3. Burying the Dead

Sorry about any errors that may be in this chapter. I don't really have time to read it over. Thanks to Opera Ghost 1881, The Real Christine Daae, Punjabchild, and of course Julia for reviewing! You should have seen my review dance. Only now, my parents are convinced I really am insane, and they're shipping me off for a month!

**Erik: Don't believe a word she says! She's going to summer camp to have fun without you!**

**Auronlives: Oh shut up you!**

**Anyway, we get to see a Broadway play. Maybe it'll be Phantom! I'll try to write a few chapters when I'm away, but they won't get posted for a short while. I just want to assure you that I am not dead, and remind you I am still looking for suggestions for a new title!!! Oh, yeah, and I still don't own Phantom of the Opera.**

**Erik: But I own you**

**Auronlives: Oh yeah!!! Excuse me for a second…(shuts curtains)**

CHRISTINE

We buried the dead child today. I never even knew it. Raoul said it was born dead.

I was stunned when the maid informed me of the news. The midwife had warned me that the second child would be likely to die, but I had never even considered the possibility. Everything had been going so right for me lately, and I was sure that things could only continue to improve. Besides, I was sure that I would feel something, that I would know somehow if something was wrong. I was the mother, after all. Weren't mothers just supposed to _know_?

I had been unconscious for the rest of that day and all night. Raoul arrived back from making the funeral arrangements at around midday the next day. I hastily dried my tears before I spoke to him. I didn't want him to see me upset.

"Well," he said, and I got the strange feeling that he was speaking more to himself than to me. "It's all settled. Everything's done with now."

"Raoul, are you alright?" I asked. "You were gone for a long time…"

"Um, yes," he said hurriedly, "I had some issues with the…the undertaker. I had to go all the way to Paris just to meet with the man."

I wondered why he hadn't just gotten a different undertaker, and why he had to meet the man in the first place, but I decided to let the matter rest.

However, that wasn't the last time Raoul acted oddly this week. Just this morning, when I asked if I could look into the casket, he went berserk, forbidding it absolutely. He went on and on about how it would accomplish nothing except to trouble me, and I had to keep myself calm and healthy to take care of the other baby, and he just wouldn't have it.

We decided to name him Verrill, after the Valerius'. Mama Valerius had been the first to congratulate me about the baby, and offered to help care for it. Tragically, she had passed away during my pregnancy. It was the least I could do to thank her for what she had done for my father and I.

Verrill was calm, rarely crying, and always smiling. He was my only respite, the harness that held me back from plummeting over the cliff. But even he had cried at the funeral. It was as though he sensed that there was something wrong. I held him and comforted him, but his crying did not cease until just a few minutes ago, when he fell asleep.

For the past few months, since Erik had allowed me to go, I had thought about him little. I was doing what he wanted, and I convinced myself that as long as I was happy, he would be happy. There was no news of a major disaster in Paris, and also no mysterious obituary in the paper declaring, "Erik is Dead," as he promised there would be as soon as the inevitable event came to pass. So I went on thinking that he was living his life without me and doing just fine, and that I would never have reason to fear him again.

But suddenly my mind was full of him, and I was sure that the miscarriage was due to some curse or scheme of his. He would not be forgotten so easily it seemed. I had no reason whatsoever to connect Erik to the incident, but my mind did so without first consulting me. Soon, everything that went wrong, every minor misfortune, from a spill to a stubbed toe, found me cursing Erik under my breath.

I could never have two of anything, it appeared. I could not have both Erik and Raoul, and I could not have twins. In my childhood, I had rarely felt the need to make choices. After my father died, the world seemed to be filled with nothing but choices. Things ceased to be "and", and became always "or". Perhaps it was life's little retaliation for my picturesque youth.

It seemed, however, I had ended up all right, if not well, on both deals. Raoul was everything I could have ever hoped for in a man, and Verrill everything I could hope for in a child. The way his eyes lit up when I sang to him filled me with an ecstasy I had not felt since I had last heard Erik's music. But now, I told myself, with this child, I could live without it. With my loving husband, and my perfect baby, I would no longer need the illusions of a masked genius.

NADIR

"She's crying again," said Erik, a note of frustration in his voice, as soon as I entered the house. "What on earth does she want?"

"Have you tried feeding her yet?" I asked. Of course, it would perfectly suit Erik's nature for him to forget to feed a baby. He had always shown a strange indifference to food. "You know, you really only need to eat once a day," he had said to me once. I always found this particular quality of his quite unnerving.

He looked sheepish for a brief second, and then suddenly horrified. "What am I going to feed her?" he wondered.

"Well, milk, of course," I said. For a genius, he was showing an astounding lack of common sense.

"Doesn't it have to be from…oh, you know what I'm talking about!" he raved angrily, pacing so furiously it was a wonder Etoile didn't go flying through the air.

"No!" I said quickly, realizing what was upsetting him so much. "No, you can just warm some regular milk up. My wife did it that way sometimes." Perhaps I wasn't the authority on young children, but compared to Erik I was a guru. Obviously, he lacked any kind of experience in the matter, and either didn't remember or refused to acknowledge anything his mother had done for him.

"Oh," he said, ceasing his pacing as sharply as he had begun it. "Well, I don't have any milk in the house anyway. What use would I have for it? It isn't good for singers."

"You'll have to go out and get some!" I told him. "Whether you like it or not, that's what babies eat. And while you're at it, you may want to get her a cradle, or something, unless you want to sit up all night holding her again!" Apparently, from his description of the previous night's events, he had not moved an inch from the time the Vicomte had presented the girl to him to this morning, when I came banging on his door as usual. Then I left to attend to my own affairs for several hours, only to find him in the precise spot I had left him in when I returned. It seemed I would have to guide his every move in the early days of Etoile's life. And being the one to guide him was a situation completely foreign to me.

It had been a long time since I had taken care of a baby. Etoile, I realized was my second chance twice over. She was my second chance at helping to raise a child. My son had been abruptly cut off from me by death. Death by Erik's hand, actually, though I'd never resented him for it. He did what I could not, and in doing so spared Reza from the unbearable suffering of the last months of his short life. Now, here was my opportunity to prove myself as a guardian with his child. Our roles had been reversed.

She was also my second chance at turning an exceptional soul towards good. I had failed quite miserably with Erik, to the point where I sometimes regretted even sparing his life. If she was anything like him, I would have to do everything in my power to keep her from following in his footsteps. Maybe, she would come to be everything he could have been.

"You may also want to consider buying her some clothing. Or at least a diaper." It may have just been my imagination, but I think he cringed a little.

"Very well, Daroga," he sighed. "I have to post this anyway," he added, indicating a letter, the only evidence he had moved a centimetre since I had left him that morning. "Will you stay here with her?"

"Yes. But Erik, I have one question."

"Don't you always?"

"Erik, what are you going to do about her face? Will you make her wear a mask?"

"No," he said, and I could tell that he'd thought about this before. "Not yet. When she gets to a point where she may be able to comprehend that she is…different, then she'll have to wear it. But until then, I think I can spare her the discomfort. I'll just have to keep the door to the guest bedroom locked, there's a mirror in there. It won't be a problem for you, will it?" This was obviously a loaded question.

"No more than you ever were."

He laughed. "Then, my friend, I expect this will be quite interesting." And with that he handed Etoile to me and left without another word, still chuckling deep in his throat.  
I sighed and sat down, bouncing Etoile on my lap to keep her entertained as I thought. As irksome as I found Erik's moodiness and sarcasm, I was glad he was back to normal. The past few months, he was really beginning to scare me. He had been in an almost vegetative state, sitting on the couch and staring into space for hours at a time, getting up only to use the water closet or eat periodically. The great pipe organ stayed silent, gathering dust along with the sheaths of paper he would normally have been penning away at, and the myriad strange devices he would have been adjusting. When he spoke, his voice had none of its usual bite and vitality, and had completely lost that hypnotic quality that just made you want to listen to him speak. He was wasting away mentally, and it was even harder to watch him then than in the month or so that he appeared to be dying.

About an hour later, Erik returned, laden with so much stuff I could hardly make out his slim form beneath all of the parcels he carried. "I'm going to have to ask my managers for a raise, if this persists," he said.

"That is completely your business," I replied.

"Oh, Daroga, you're never any fun," he sighed. "Here, help me with this."

We managed to get Etoile fed and clothed, and set up a crib in Erik's room (there really was no other place for it. There was a mirror in the guest room, the bathroom had to be avoided for obvious reasons, there was no space in the drawing room, the laboratory was too dangerous, and the Louis-Philippe room was too far away from Erik's for him to know if something was wrong) in a reasonable amount of time.

"Well, then," I said, "I'll see you tomorrow morning. Try to get her to sleep," I motioned toward Etoile. She had not slept since I had first discovered her that morning, which was most unnatural behavior for a baby. I didn't break my head over it though. She _was_ Erik's daughter.

"I'll try, but I'm not making any promises. Goodbye, Nadir," replied Erik, and went to his room. I was about to leave, when I froze in my spot. He was warming up on the organ. I smiled. Thank Allah, he really was back to normal!

Then, I heard a crash, the overturning of the crib no doubt, and Erik leaping up. I was about to run back in when I heard him laugh, and I relaxed. "You little demon," he said glowingly, and after a second or so of pause, resumed his playing. I just knew that Etoile was in his lap.

Smiling conspiratorially, I closed the door softly behind me and left.


	4. letters and lullabies

**I Liiiiiiive!!!! Brandy new chappie for ya, plus I revised all of the other ones! Unfortunately, I'm leaving for marching band camp on Sunday, and I have practice all day tomorrow (which is less than an hour away, so getting a bit of sleep would be ideal) so unless my muse beats me over the head with a steal pole, don't expect any updates for about a week. I jumped over quite a big writer's block to write this one, so appreciate it!!! But now my muse is back! wOOt wOOt! Oh, and camp was great. I made my friend read Phantom of the Opera, and she got obsessed too! And we Punjabed rocks and tortured them with mirrors, and we hung them from trees behind the bunk (because we couldn't find any iron ones, so the real ones just had to suffice). Anyway, enjoy! And review!**

RAOUL

The first few months of Verrill's life found me walking on hot coals at all times. I had no fear greater than the fear that he would, after all, be the phantom of the pair. But the months crawled by, and Verrill showed no signs of any extraordinary development. He laughed and cried and ate just as any normal baby would. He babbled and crawled at just the right age. He was the epitome of perfection.

Sometimes, just looking at him would make my stomach turn with guilt, as I thought about his sister below the surface of Paris, or my sad, detached relationship with him. I let Christine take care of him most of the time, and had never really done anything more than feed him, or clean a diaper. I had never been more confused in my life. I wanted to be a good father, but I felt that I had already failed in that respect. And however I tried to explain the feeling away, a tight knot remained in my stomach constantly.

"Raoul," Christine said one night, looking concerned, and putting her palm against my forehead as she spoke. "Are you feeling alright? Do you think you should see a doctor?"

"I'm fine!" I uttered hurriedly. "What made you think I was sick?"

"You've been acting rather strangely the past few months. Are you still upset about…you know…"

Christine and I had resolved never to speak of the other baby, especially not in front of Verrill. He would be happier sans that knowledge. Interesting, how I had never lied in my life, and the birth of one little girl saw me becoming quite an expert at it. A tiny event can change a person's entire character, apparently. An honest man telling lie on top of lie, just to protect a thing that should have never come to be by the laws of nature.

"You could certainly say that," I replied. Telling the truth was a luxury lately, and I was glad to be able to indulge even in a half-truth. The words felt oddly foreign, tasting like blood in my mouth.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

_Yes! _My brain screamed mercilessly, even as, "no," emerged from my mouth. At least the lie washed away some of the aftertaste of the reality.

"I understand," said Christine softly, and leaned in, kissing me tentatively. At first I resisted, but then, slowly, I felt myself surrender. Christine was the only thing in my life that could loosen that knot in my gut, if only for a moment. I felt my eyes begin to water.

"I love you Christine," I whispered.

My New Year's resolution that year was to become a better father. By the time the holidays rolled around, Verrill was crawling and had learned a few simple words, like mama, papa, and his own name. Still nothing particularly unnatural, but one quality of his put me a bit at unease: the way he responded to music.

Any time that Christine started to hum, even just the slightest bit, he would drop whatever he was doing at the moment and come running, often hurting himself in the process. He would sit perfectly still, and just listen. The piano in our foyer, though neither Christine nor I could play it, fascinated him, and he would sit down and plink at the keys constantly (though not, as I observed with relief, in any sort of pattern or rhythm. Just normal baby-like noise) and often cry when he realized he couldn't duplicate the sounds of his mother. His absolute obsession scared me, but I wasn't sure what to make of it. He hadn't _done_ anything really, and I wondered if maybe this characteristic was inherited from Christine. It did remind me of that night in the cemetery in Perros, her ecstasy at Erik's music. Maybe that was why she continued to return to him, for I was quite certain that it was not love.

I was beginning to feel more at ease around Verrill, and I had even started to play with him sometimes. He really was an adorable little thing. The kind of child everyone wished for. He was lucky. Every time we took him out, ladies would coo at him and compliment us. Our several maids all loved him, and often played with him, and slipped him sweets. I was wild when I first found this out, fearing he would choke, but one thing he had certainly shown himself a prodigy at was eating sweets. He could suck on candy before he could even chew food.

But even as I slipped out of my slump, one thing always remained in my sights: my agreement with Erik. No matter how high I climbed on the ladder, I could still look down and see that at the bottom, and I felt that old knot start to twist again. I realized I didn't want to go. I had finally fallen back into a routine, and I was feeling relatively content. I didn't want to invite that to end. Besides, he had been in an odd mood the last time we had spoken. I wasn't sure he would receive me so kindly a second time. But I knew deep down that I would go, for the sake of the girl. The girl that wasn't even mine.

ERIK

I would be incredibly interested in performing a study on parents to see if knowing how to raise children is an innate characteristic. I had always thought it was, until I came face to face with Etoile, and realized that I wasn't even sure if I could put her down and leave the room for a few minutes. It is a very good thing I had Nadir, who at least had some experience in the area, or I might have stood there holding her for the rest of my pitiful existence. It seemed that this was going to be harder than I had thought. There were practical issues that hadn't even crossed my mind, not to mention all the emotional ones that I knew were soon to come.

Not that I had an overwhelming amount of experience with children, but I was sure that Etoile was an odd one. For one thing, she rarely slept. Nadir insisted babies needed at least twelve hours of sleep, and that nothing less was healthy. But Etoile was apparently different as she spent about twenty hours of her day awake. She wouldn't cry, she would just lie there, staring at you with her yellowish eyes, taking in everything about you. I have to admit, as much as I am ashamed of it, her burning gaze in that twisted face sent shivers down my spine on more than one occasion, but that just redoubled my fierce affection for her.

Another quirk of hers was her crying. As long as she was with me, and no-one else was there, she was content just to watch, quietly, from wherever she happened to be, unless she was hungry or dirty, which wasn't terribly often, for a baby, I suppose. But the second another person entered the room, she would cry like a dying animal until the person left, or she fell asleep. The same thing happened when I failed to keep her in the same room that I was in. The day that Nadir and I first discovered this was one of the most amusing I have ever had. We clocked her at over three and a half hours, without decreasing her volume so much as a decibel, while we scrambled about like headless chickens, trying everything from feeding her to changing her to playing with her to singing with her. It wasn't until Nadir left to use the water closet that she quieted down, and we discovered the secret to her incessant noise. Three and a half hours was quite an accomplishment for a month-old baby, I remarked proudly. With lungs like those, she was going to make an excellent singer someday.

And she loved music. No matter how unhappy she was (barring the presence of someone she didn't know) singing would have her perfectly quiet in seconds. And if I started playing the organ or the violin, she would fuss until I brought her closer to the instrument. My latest project became writing her a lullaby that would actually put her to sleep, and she was always up for an experiment.

I was testing my latest creation on her one morning when Nadir came, not knocking, but pounding on my door, as though it had done him some great wrong and he was seeking retribution. I sighed, put Etoile down on the couch, and let the man in before he bruised his knuckles.

"Erik!" he said, sounding winded and breathless, as though he'd run all the way there, "Is this from that woman you spoke about? I got it in the post today. It has your name on it."

He handed me the letter, and, sure enough, it was addressed:

ERIK

vis a vis NADIR KAHN

RUE DE RIVOLI

PARIS, FRANCE

"Well, I think it's safe to assume," I said, ignoring Etoile's crying for the time being. I could project well enough.

"What does it say?" Nadir asked.

"To be able to tell you that, my friend, I have to read it," I said, my voice dripping with frustration.

"So what are you waiting for, springtime?"

Sighing, I tore open the letter, and read aloud, "Dear Erik,

'It is wonderful to hear from you again," I rolled my eyes, "I hope you are well, and so is your baby. I will do anything I can to assist you. Thank you for making such kind arrangements for me to come to Paris. I will come as soon as I can. You can expect me around November 6. My mother recently passed away, and I have been busy making arrangements, so I apologize for not replying to your letter sooner.

'All of the best, Marie Perrault. Well, that was a lovely letter."

"What exactly did you write in that letter of yours?" Nadir asked suspiciously.

"Oh nothing threatening, really," I said with a bit of a smile. "She's already been terrified of me for a while. Signing my name was all the threat that letter needed."

"What kind of arrangements did you make for her?"

"I offered to rent a flat for her nearby. Actually, on the same street as yours."

"And how are you planning to afford that?"

"I told you, I really deserve a raise. I've been working hard this past month." Nadir cringed.

"What you do to those poor fools is your business. Just don't forget your promise, Erik."

I sighed. "How could I forget? You're never out of my ear long enough for me to even move my thoughts. You know Daroga, I would appreciate you far more if you weren't around so much."

He grinned a bit. "Right. Oh, Erik, I forgot to mention. Moncharmin and Richard sold the place at last. The opera is under new management."

I returned the grin. "I'm always up for a bit of a challenge. I'd better make them up a revised memorandum book right now, before they get to comfortable."

Nadir shook his head. "Just don't do anything you'll regret, Erik."

"Oh, come on Daroga. It's been a while since I've had a bit of fun."


	5. The Rose and the Nightingale

**Yes! Your eyes do not delude you! It is a new chappie, FINALLY. Sorry about this sucker, but marching band and school owned me like crazy the past couple months. I hope you all haven't lost interest! Don't forget to review!**

ERIK

It was about five o'clock in the morning, and I sat at my desk composing a somewhat threatening note to my dear manager. The dead silence of morning was present all about me, and the sound of my pen scratching on the paper as I scrawled along seemed as if it could drown out an entire opera chorus. I looked down at my chicken-scratch with distaste. I had always had little patience with forming letters. It was one of the things that didn't come easily to me, even now; especially the curved letters like the g and the s. Forget longhand, my block printing was just barely legible. When wielding a pen, I preferred cleaner lines, defined angles, things that were simple to duplicate.

Sighing a bit, I folded up the letter and slid it into an envelope. I took my time, enjoying the peace of the morning hour, basking in the darkness adulterated only by the tiny pinpoint of a single candle, burning like a star in a deep abyss of night sky. And then, a loud, telltale crash broke my reverie. I had never been one to swear before, but had recently taken up the habit, and proceeded to do so loudly, as I leapt out of my chair, and practically flew into the next room.

Sure enough, there was Etoile, sitting on the floor, sniffling. She drew a great breath, and I deftly scooped her into my arms before she could put it to use. "Oh, hush, you little demon" I said, rocking her gently. She was still fussy, however, so I set her down on the organ bench, where she pulled herself upright, something she had learned to do recently, and waited expectantly. Shaking my head at myself, my own newfound soft-heartedness, I started to play.

She watched and listened dreamily for a while, her eyes half closed, rocking back and forth to the subtle meter of the piece. Content that she was satisfied, I finished playing, with a mind to set Etoile down somewhere and continue my letters. But when I tried to pick her up, she grasped at the instrument, screaming and shaking her tiny head furiously. "No" she shouted. "No"

I continued to wrestle with her for a few seconds until the full impact of what had just occurred found me. Etoile had just spoken. Setting her down, I gaped in amazement. Not so much amazement that she had spoken as amazement that I had cared. I felt something odd welling up in my chest, something that started at the pit of the stomach and ended in the throat. Something like I felt when I first heard Christine sing Margarita in Faust…

Pride. The word hit me like a whiplash. I could feel a smile inching around my lips, as I slowly sat down next to Etoile. "What is it that you want, my dear"

She seemed to contemplate this for a moment, staring right into my eyes as if trying to read my question in them. She then struck a note on the keyboard, which I recognized as the first note of the piece I had just played. Then, she turned her head around and looked at me expectantly. I wasn't quite sure what she meant, so I started to play the piece again. Etoile reached over, knocking my hands out of balance, and hit the second note of the melody.

I realized what she wanted. She wanted to play the song. As playing the whole thing was purely out of the question- her tiny hands barely spanned two or three keys- I reverted to the single-note melody. I played the first two bars. Etoile plinked them out after me. She was out of rhythm and time, and played several wrong notes in her efforts, but it was still recognizable. I was mildly impressed. We went on like this for quite a while, until I heard a familiar knock on the door. By that time, Etoile was playing nearly every note correctly, and even starting to get closer to the rhythm. Her yellow eyes, like two burning gimlets, were fixed upon that organ as if it would get up and exit the room the second she looked away. When I got up to answer the door, she started whimpering, but allowed me to pick her up from the bench. As I walked out of the room, she crawled up my arm and gazed longingly over my shoulder.

"Oh, calm down, it isn't going anywhere" I said, righting her. I started to hum gently as I went to answer the door, and Etoile quieted down, back to her vigilant watching. I let Nadir in, bracing myself for the roar of Etoile. He obviously was as well, the grimace on his face told as much. We stood there for about ten seconds, waiting.

"She's not crying" observed the Daroga.

"It appears not" I replied, still ready. Five more seconds. Nothing.

"Is she alright" asked Nadir, sounding concerned.

I glanced at Etoile, who was twiddling her thumbs amicably in my arms. "She's fine. It must have been the organ…"

Nadir looked puzzled. "Haven't we tried that before"

"No. We've never tried letting her play before."

"What? Erik, she's a baby…you can't be serious…"

"Oh, it was nothing serious, just a single note melody, and she was pressing the keys after me. Still, it was good for someone barely able to speak…"

"You mean, unable" Nadir said.

"No, I mean what I said. I rarely say anything without meaning it, you should know that by now."

"She's spoken too" asked Nadir, shaking his head. "What did she say"

I felt my face contort into a hideous smile in spite of myself. "No."

Nadir laughed. "Well, clearly she takes after you."

"Clearly" I acceded. Etoile once again attempted to crawl up my arm. "Good lord, you are such an adorable little monstrous pest" I hissed playfully, yanking her back down. "Papa is too old for all of this. You are going to be the death of me yet."

"Here" Nadir said"give her to me before she starts screaming again. Who knows if she'll stay so complacent much longer? Hurry up with your goddamned errand, would you? Allah willing, you'll be the one to deal with the better part of her tantrum when she comes back to herself."

"Well, now, that really isn't a very considerate thing to wish upon your friend" I responded, still in oddly high spirits.

"You're the father here" he replied. "I've done my time."

As we each processed this statement, there was an awkward silence. He suddenly looked very sad, and my mood was considerably dampened. Amazing how a simple phrase can turn an entire conversation around. Some memories were just so potent, they were stronger than here and now. Well, I thought resolutely, I am no longer living in the past. I have a now to worry about. I will defeat the memories. Pointlessly forcing my smile back onto my unfortunate face (It's not as if it was really visible through my mask anyway), I handed Etoile into Nadir's care. "I should be back shortly. Just keep her from causing to much mischief while I'm away. She probably won't get hungry, but if she does, there is some milk in the cupboard. You'll have to heat it up though, she won't take it cold. And if she happens to need a changing" I taunted"I will leave that to your pleasure. I shall see you soon."

With that, I departed, feeling my spirits climbing slowly again. I could defeat the past. I just had. I can do anything. Anything that I really want to do. I had conquered many crafts, and now I would try my hand at this new field; and as usual, I would succeed.

NADIR

I couldn't help but brace myself for the tears, figuring they would begin as soon as Erik left. Etoile seemed to notice this, and looked up at me, confused, searching with her spine-tingling gaze, as though she didn't know what I was so worked up about. She observed me as if seeing me for the first time. Then she started kicking. She wanted to be set down. I let her down on the couch, but my watchful eye never departed from her. I watched her. She watched me. And after a time we both grew exceptionally bored.

Etoile began to experiment with the plentiful colonies of dust bunnies residing beneath the couch, and I decided I had to find something else to do than sit there and stare at her. I noticed that Erik had left some stationary on the desk, along with a lead pencil, so I sat down and began to sketch, without really thinking of what I was doing. My mind floated back to my youth, back to Persia, leaving the room with the Phantom's little demonic child, resting upon happier shores. Literal shores. A memory of a drawing in the sand of the beach…I had loved to draw when I was a young boy, but I never had much talent. However, this little doodle in the sand was my masterpiece. I sat back on my haunches, examining it with pride, even as the pencil in my hand glided across the sandy place of paper before me in the dim reality. And as looked at it, I heard my father, telling me the end of a story, the story that repeated itself in my head as I drew, in my solitude, while the other children played rowdy games in the shallow surf. I smiled with pride, closing my eyes…and felt my face sprayed with sand. Two cousins chasing each other about the beach had sequentially trod right through my masterpiece, marring it beyond repair. I began to cry, and cried more with the shame of crying. I never even got the chance to show the picture to my father, who had told me the lovely story.

Coming back to myself, I gazed at the picture I had just created, a pencil reprise of that drawing in the sand from years ago, a nightingale, and a rose. A story I had been told when I was very young, and had passed down to the slightly younger Erik in our days together in Persia. A story that came to have more meaning in my life then I ever could have guessed as I sat on my father's lap in our apartments so many years ago…

Etoile, growing ever more uninterested in the world beneath the couch, began her familiar whimper that would soon crescendo into a deafening cry. I dropped the drawing in my haste to pick her up. She evaded my grasp, and I prepared to lose a little bit more of my hearing, but her sob cut itself off abruptly, as she clutched the fallen drawing, wrinkling the edges in her tiny grasp. She stared at it for a time, until finally, I eased it from her grasp, set it down on the table, and held her on my lap. She looked unusually content, more so than she had ever looked around me before, and begun playing with my shirtsleeve. Sighing, I ran my hands through her soft, delicate mane of tangles, staring at a painting on the wall in front of me absently. "Once, there was a white rose, and a nightingale, and every night the nightingale would go to the rose, even though their love could never be…"

**Thanks to Stephanie, for telling me about the formatting problem in this chapter!**


	6. Angel of the Opera

**Let's play update before Julia and Vanessa get to read the other update! Then we can play run screaming from Julia's giant backpack of doom! Anyways, here's a pretty warmnfuzzy Erik chappie for you all…don't worry, there will be more angst to come, and of course more Raoul ;-) I know how much you all love him (snark). I do love the Vicomte, and you should too!**

Doomed Delight**- Ah, yes there have been many of these stories about lately, but mine was first, started a bit less than a year ago. sticks out tounge**

MegChristine- **If this story continues along the lines I plan it, there will be more of the kids involved as they get older, but it will also focus on developing the characters we know and love throughout! **

ERIK

It really is funny how the older I get, the more stairs the opera seems to grow. A journey that just a few short years ago- before Christine- would have taken me fewer than thirty minutes seemed to be taking about an hour. I dragged myself along, frustrated with my own inability to match the speed and dexterity of my prime. Sighing at the sight of another staircase, I mentally reminded myself, you're not ready for the grave yet, Erik. You've got a six-month old daughter to take care of. The easy way out is no longer an option.

After hauling myself through the remainder of the never-ending trek through the cellars, I finally came upon the trapdoor I was looking for. I was directly below the manager's office. I paused, listening for the slightest flutter of breath in the room above, but heard nothing. The room was empty; perfect. I deftly opened the larger trapdoor, and pulled myself up through it, careful not to snag my cloak on the sides. I had learned that lesson long ago. Luck was the only thing that had saved me; imagine if those dolts had come back while I was still fervently trying to untangle myself! What a convincing ghost I would have been then! Look, the shade has got his cape pinned to the floor! How absolutely terrifying!

Swelling a bit from the nostalgia, I stealthily entered the office. Only one desk seemed to currently be in use; the other was covered by haphazardly piled junk, some of which probably hadn't seen the light of day for weeks. I wrinkled what I had of a nose in disgust. So the new manager was a slob? All the better for me, I could use that against him. Someone obviously prone to misplacing important items doesn't think much of it when they disappear.

I deposited my note on the desk on which a small island of blotter had been excavated to use as a writing surface, and went out through another passage. This one led to a false vent that I could use to observe this new fellow: Monsieur Pierpont, his stationary had declared him. I was quite interested in the finer details of his personality.

Producing a small book from my cloak, I sat on the floor of the passage and prepared to wait as long as I had to. Nadir would figure out what to do if I took to long. Besides, it wasn't as if Etoile would get hungry or anything. No, she would just scream because she wanted me, and as I had business elsewhere that couldn't be avoided.

It was a wonderful sensation though, to be screamed for. Every time I thought of Etoile's cries an odd, unfamiliar warmth washed over me, like the elixir of the gods had rained upon my very head. People had screamed in fear of me, screamed for me to get away. No-one had ever needed me before. I was little more than a shadow passing through, frightening, but easily ignored, and even more easily forgotten. Now I was a being of flesh, no matter how twisted that flesh might be, because there was a child who would cry and scream until I went to her, and there was nothing else that could be done to quiet her.

The door creaked, and I looked up from the book. I had been reading the words, but not processing them, and I realized as I shut in silently I had been reading the same page over and over again. I tucked the book back into the inside pocket of my cloak, and peered through the vent, eager as a child in a candy shop to scout out my newest pray.

He was short, with brown hair already turning to white, and a prominent mustache. He wore a pair of thick, round spectacles and a brown suit. I noticed particularly from my singular vantage point that his feet were rather to large for his petite stature, and they were housed in a pair of gargantuan brown shoes, so worn that they shined at the toe.

Monsieur Pierpont traversed the room, and slid into his seat at the desk I had chosen. He rifled through some papers for a while, my note for the moment unobserved. He had a frazzled, harassed air about him, I noticed; his hands seemed to shake constantly while he shuffled the papers and god-knows-what-else on his desk about.

After an eternity, he finally noticed my letter, as indicated by an intricate little jump move he performed. I blinked. I would have very much liked to see him do it again. It ranked fairly high on the list of interesting things I had seen in my life.

I watched his eyes as he scanned the page. His pupils dilated and undulated frequently, bringing to mind a prairie dog sticking its head in and out of its hole. As he set the letter down, I noticed a thoroughly confused look plastered across his face. He shrugged rather as dramatically as he did everything else, and the letter disappeared into the black hole created by the other memos swamping the desk. I sighed. I was beginning to see that this particular fellow was going to require more direct means of persuasion. I waited for a while longer, and when nothing else happened, I turned to go. Nadir would be needing help with Etoile by now, I had been gone much longer than I had promised I would be.

I was just leaving the passage, when I heard the door to the office creak open, and footfalls, heavier than those of Pierpont, make their plodding way into the room. Intrigued, I swallowed my guilt about Nadir and Etoile and headed back to peer through the vent.

It was Gabriel, the chorus director, dropping off the ticket sales report for that night's production of "The Magic Flute". I had heard about the production, and intended to keep my distance: I had no desire to hear La Carlotta butcher the role of the Queen of the Night, one that had always been a personal favorite. Pity, the soprano was so over trained. She really did had a lovely tone; it was just buried under mounds and mounds of technique. Perhaps I would have given her a few pointers, had she not been so needlessly cruel to Christine.

Through the vent, I saw Pierpont stand, and make an odd little gesture of welcome to Gabriel. "Monsieur Gabriel, you are exactly the man I wished to see…well, perhaps not exactly, but I suppose you'll do…as a matter of fact, I really didn't have a person in mi…"

"Yes monsieur?" Gabriel interrupted.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm always going off at the mouth like that. I really can't help it, I don't know what I'm saying. If I start doing it again, just feel free to interup…"

"Monsieur?"

"Yes?"

"You're doing it again, Monsieur."

"Oh, there I go again, terribly sorry…"

"What is it that you wanted to ask me?" Gabriel said, his tone full of barely concealed frustration.

"About this Opera Ghost fellow, does he really get a salary?"

"We've found that it's for the best if he does."

"Oh, you theatre people, and all your ridiculous suspicions. Well, we'll be turning over a new leaf now that I'm manager! No more throwing away money on good luck charms and ghosts! No sir! Not on my watch! A new leaf I say…"

Exhausted by this form of pointless conversation, I left before I started to go insane. I found myself becoming more and more aware of the weight caused by my Punjab lasso in my cloak with every word he said. But I had gained one thing from listening to that rubbish. Direct measures would indeed be needed. Pierpont would most certainly be attending "The Magic Flute" that night, and if I wanted to confront him, I would have to resume my position in the hollow column now.

Arriving in Box 5, I looked out over the stage briefly. The corps du ballet was getting in some last minute rehearsal. A lone pianist sat in the pit, and the little ballet rats pranced around the stage in time to his unforgiving accompaniment. Madame Giry struck her walking stick against the floor, dealt out several sharp reprimands, and ordered the accompanist to begin again. Watching the girls dance with greatly varying degrees of grace, I noticed the absence of little Giry. I wondered if this was perhaps that insufferable manager's doing. Things, it seemed, had changed. The Opera Garnier was long overdue for a good haunt.

-

One book and three quarters of an hour picking at my fingernails later, I was frightfully bored. The dandies and their bedecked little maidens had just begun to trickle in to the auditorium, and it would be at least another twenty minutes before the production would start. As I had assumed, Pierpont took up his seat not an instant to early, and lo and behold, it was right in the box where I sat in hiding, in direct defiance of my letter, I mused. He was making this too easy.

Not willing to wait until intermission, I decided to make my move during the first act. Carefully manipulating my voice, I spoke to him. "Monsieur Pierpont, a moment if you please…"

He performed the jump move from earlier, but on a larger scale than before. It was quite a sight to behold. Now that I had seen it again, I could go to my grave in peace. "Where is that voice coming from?" he squealed. "Who is it?"

"Now monsieur, I know much about you, including your slovenly habits, so I am willing to forgive…"

"I know! I know what this must be! This is one of those divine revelations that people are always talking about! You're god, aren't you?"

This caught me by surprise. I blinked, contemplating. Why not be god, if it would get him to pay me? "uhh…ehhm," I stuttered, temporarily dropping my pretense in my indecision. Then finally, in as majestic a tone as I could muster, I replied, "Yes. This is god speaking to you, regarding one of my agents who is in need of his due pay…"

"One of your agents? Oh Lord, you are too kind. You know, everything those priests say about you is true! You need not repay me; it is I who must repay you!"

I blinked, unable to respond.

"This opera business is wonderful and all, and I hate to give it up on such short notice but when the lord calls, you had better answer, eh? Eh? EH? Yes, I am going to study to become a priest now! Thank you, lord, for providing me with a direction in my life! I shall sell this lovely business first thing tomorrow, and then seek to tell the world what you have revealed to me in this moment of truth, as I stand here at the crossroads of my life…"

I left, discretely out the back, figuring any attempt to remedy the situation would be futile. I headed back across the endless stairs in a daze, still rather stunned and confused by the absurdity of what had just happened. What a sad, strange little man that Pierpont was…

Still shaken and wide-eyed, I worked the mechanism that unlocked the door and guiltily strode in. I expected a thorough scolding from my dear dargoa. It was nearly nine o' clock, and I had left him and Etoile around noon. However, what I did see left me as wide-eyed as the ridiculous little manager.

I lit a candle, only to see Nadir sitting on the couch, with Etoile in his arms, asleep. I motioned to wake them, but then, on second thought, blew out the candle, and decided to leave them. On my way to my room I stepped on something that made a loud crackling noise. Frozen like a thief in the night, hoping I hadn't woken Etoile, I listened. Nadir stirred briefly, but then all was quiet and still again. I picked up the piece of paper, and brought it into my room. Once I had the door safely shut, I lit a candle.

It was a rather lovely drawing of a rose and nightingale, I assumed had been composed by my friend to keep Etoile entertained. In the lower corner, there was another rose, smaller, childish. I wondered if it was the work of my daughter. I remembered the story, of course. Nadir had told it to me in Persia…and I had told it to Christine…

It really was a beautiful story.


	7. Prima Ballerina

**Mua**** ha ha, bet none of you were expecting this! dodges flying bricks don't worry, we will get back to Etoile, Erik, Verrill, and our dear Vicomte soon! But first, a little interlude, inspired by a single line in Susan Kay…**

** >>>Edit- my my, I have been neglecting reviewer questions! I appologize! **

**Queen Ame- Etoile is the french word for star. Verrill is derived (I believe) from the French word for truth. So I do indeed enjoy playing around with names -p**

MEG GIRY

I sat in the wings—sat, because standing had quickly grown painful—and forlornly watched the rehearsal. I should be **on **that stage, I thought. Not sulking back here. The dancing of the other girls looked more dismal than usual, and many missteps caught my readily nitpicking eye. I had no desire to watch the performance that night, particularly considering that the diva La Carlotta was supposedly going to attempt to sing the role of Queen of the Night over a cold, which wasn't exactly something I wanted to hear. But I would have put up with it; I would have put up with anything if only…

A sudden pain shot through my right ankle, causing every muscle in my body to suddenly go rigid, and a soft gasp to escape my lips. Luckily, no-one heard me over the over-zealous accompaniment and the all-too-pounding feet of the dancers. As soon as it began to dull, I shifted my position and rubbed it gently, wiping away the solitary tear that sat on my lip.

I had been good, maybe even great. That much was obvious; all too obvious, in fact. I thought I could do anything, no, I** knew **I could do anything. I had been the leader of my row since my first year at the Opera Garnier, and a soloist since my second. I was well on my way to becoming a famous prima ballerina. I had none of the natural awkwardness attributed to most girls of my age, and while the other ballet rats pranced, I was able to soar. I had quickly gained the attention of the managers who had replaced Debienne and Poligny, much to the dismay of the other girls and the current prima ballerina La Sorelli, who thought me too childish to even consider competing with for the role. But I knew that I had more potential than she had had. I was younger than her, and could already perform all of the same moves, but one…

She may have possessed the affection of the Count, the patron of the Opera, but the count had turned up dead the same morning that his younger brother and my friend Christine Daae had fled Paris, and the managers had resigned shortly after. Though I knew that it was rather cold of me, all the while I was thinking one thought: this was the time for me to show whoever took over that I could dance rings around La Sorelli.

For the most part, I could. Everything she did, I could do and better, but for one thing. One move that I knew would take me several more years of flexibility training to be able to execute properly. But several years was too long, especially when I received an opportunity that would take hundreds of years to come again.

Sorelli was stricken with an awful bout of flu, and unable to perform that night. My rather haggard looking mother walked through the dressing rooms of the corps du ballet, talking with Gabriel and the new manager, Pierpont, in a low and distressed tone. Stopping the application of my makeup, I turned an ear toward them and away from the raucous girls who were horsing around, hiding alcohol and even some ill-reputed substances at the sight of the ballet mistress, music director and manager. I could just barely pick up what my mother was saying. "No, messieurs, not even she can do it. None of them have the training required for that routine…you'll simply have to cut it from the performance."

I glared into my mirror. Of course, my mother could support Christine Daae, but when it came to me, her daughter, she had nothing but shadowy criticism. It had always been that way. No matter how good I was, my mother, in her prime, had been better. She had been the prima ballerina at this very opera for a month…

I decided to take my fate into my own hands. Maybe, just maybe, I could squeeze the immensely difficult routine out of me, just once, just to prove to this manager I was the correct material for his prima ballerina. I was silk: younger, more graceful, prettier, more charismatic then the gaudy tulle of Sorelli.

Jumping in front of them, I said, all of my fear floating away, "Let me dance for you, messieurs. Then you may decide whether or not I have sufficient training."

Pierpont looked liberated. "Yes! Of course! Perfect! Absolutely Ideal-"

"We will meet you on the stage in fifteen minutes," said Gabriel curtly, cutting him off. My mother gave me a look that could have set fire to a stone. I smiled cheekily back at her, as I nodded my concession to Pierpont and Gabriel. "Excellent!" said Pierpont. "Oh, God in heaven, I thank thee! There is surely some divine intervention tonight, eh Gabriel? The girl is perfect! Absolutely perfect! A little flower, an angel…" Gabriel looked quite pained as the pair exited.

My mother grabbed me harshly on the shoulder, surely leaving a bruise that would show through my costume. I scowled at her. "If you aren't going to help me, I'm going to help myself!"

"Meg Giry, you cannot dance that routine! You know it! How many times have I told you that if you go too far, you will dance yourself off the edge of a cliff? From such falls, child, there are no second chances. You can end everything with a simple _twist_," she accented this with a hand gesture, "of an ankle, tear of a ligament. It takes hardly anything, hardly anything at all. Will you risk all that for a chance? I thought I had taught you better than that."

"If I never take chances, I will always stay where I am. I'm good, Mother, as good as you were, much as you're loathe to admit it. I want to do something with it. I can be the greatest there ever was!"

"Yes, Meg," my mother, "you are as good as I was. Better! But I was also so audacious. I also wanted to dazzle the subscribers of the Opera Garnier. And look where I am now! Because I went to far…and fell!" She rapped her walking stick against the floor to accent this point.

My mother, as I have mentioned, had been the prima ballerina, for a month. The same month that she discovered she was pregnant with me. She had been having aches and pains, and her menstrual cycle had not come in over four months, so she finally decided to consult a physician.

That night, she was supposed to dance an extremely difficult solo at a gala that was to be attended by all of the crème de la crème of Paris, and even some foreign royalty, and the American president. The physician warned her against dancing with these aches, but she simply could not turn down the performance. Her rival, a picturesque blond with twice the looks and half the talent, would have danced the solo in her place, and this she simply could not allow.

So, she squeezed her swollen belly into her costume, and danced the solo anyway. But in the middle, she was racked with a sudden spasm, and fell awkwardly, breaking her leg. A clumsy ballerina then trod on it, and my mother blacked out, and had to be rushed to the hospital.

She could never dance the same way again. In fact, she had difficulty walking for many years, and had adopted the assistance of a rather heavy stick. I had seen her try to dance, every once in a while, when all the limes were dark and she was about to close up the opera. She would run through old routines on the dim stage, a shadow of her former grace and talent. Because of these observations, I presumed she no longer truly needed the walking stick, and was quite sure she simply liked the menacing sound it made when she banged it on the floor. My father left her after her career had ended. He had no use for a failure, especially not a pregnant one.

But that night, I knew that that would not be my fate. It couldn't happen. Not to me. Not to me.

Like mother like daughter.

"From the beginning, please, monsieur Gabriel," Pierpont instructed the music director delightedly, as I focused on the routine I was about to do. The music started, and I suddenly became acutely aware of the exact quality of every note, the precise resonance of every chord. I felt hot plasma running through my veins, and I moved through the introduction of the routine as effortlessly as I laced up my ballet slippers. I was having the best night I had had in ages. Everything was going right.

Every move fell perfectly in to place, right up until the climax of the ballet. That one move was coming. The one I had never landed. It was coming…it was here.

I gathered all of my strength, bracing myself. My muscles worked like a finely tuned violin, moving with acute precision. I had done it. I was going to land it perfectly. It was perfect! Perfect!

But it couldn't be! Something inside me cried out. I had never done this before. There was no way it would happen. The liquid fire pumping through my body turned tepid, and then icy with doubt. A twitch occurred somewhere, a twitch that was just barely sufficient to flap a butterfly's wing. But it was enough to send me sprawling. I felt the bone in my ankle shatter as I fell.

All I could remember after that were hands, many pairs of hands, and my mother's cries, and my shame, oh, the _shame_ that ran down my face in hot, unsuppressed tears, and then waking up in a hospital bed.

"She won't dance professionally again," said the cold, impersonal voice of the quack doctor, and I cried in my mothers arms, as she ran her hands through my soft, disheveled curls.

"You were right, mother….you were right…"

Coming out of my reverie, I realized that the girls were at my personal favorite part of the piece. They were making an awful mess of it. I saw Jammes, the new row leader make a horrible, stupid mistake. The type of mistake I never would have made. My mother rapped her cane mercilessly against the floor, and shouted at her, along with several of the other severely errant girls, and the music started up again.

I had been running odd jobs around the opera now, trying to make ends meet again for myself and my mother. We had to make adjustments in our lives on my greatly diminished salary, as if my inability to perform was not enough. Now, I was forced to hobble after La Carlotta backstage with her throat spray, and listen to her shout about how slow I was to whoever would listen, and how we needed crew members that were not crippled. It was rather unpleasant. I had also assumed most of my mother's boxkeeping duties of the infamous box five. The new manager had recently started selling it, and the Opera Ghost had not appeared in months. My mother seemed quite upset about this, for reasons she refused to disclose. Intrigued, I spent a lot of time limping about the box, checking for evidence of the ghost, or my mother's correspondence with him. I found nothing, but it did not matter. None of the ballet rats would have listened to tales of any of my finds anyway: they had all been avoiding me since my injury. I figured Sorelli had fed them some rubbish about me being bad luck. I would have done the same had one of them been in my place.

I had no idea what I would do with the rest of my life. I had ignored my mother's insistence to learn other skills as a cushion for my dancing career. I had never been interested, or good, for that matter, at anything else. As I eyed the accompanist, I remembered the train wreck that was her attempt at getting me piano lessons. I had never practiced, preferring pirouettes to pianissimos, commands written in French rather than Italian. Now, I wondered what might have happened if I had worked half as hard at piano as I had at dance. Perhaps, I could have been as excellent as Christine claimed her dark maestro to be.

Heartened by this idea, at the end of the rehearsal I staggered down to the orchestra pit, rather than preparing box five, and began to play, the intro to an aria I remembered.

My good mood went down faster than I had on that fateful night. I was awful. I couldn't remember half of the notes, and those I did remember, I couldn't play correctly. Compared with me, the mediocre accompanist at the rehearsal may well have been Mozart!

I glared at the ivory keys. They grinned up at me maliciously, teasing, taunting. I slammed the lid down. Now I had a new direction in life. I would conquer them, no matter what it took. If I could not stand, I would perform sitting down.


	8. A Visitor at Daybreak

**Amelia is trying to be a good little author and be more responsible with her updates. Cookies and dog biscuits are appreciated. Here we are back to our main storyline -) I promised we'ed see some Erik soon, didn't I. Well, we do…but more daroga! Yes, dagoralove, everyone! Sing it with me!**

**Anyways…**

**Vanessa (Phantom of the Costume Closet)- ah, you shall see! All in due time, m'dear, all in due time! And if you don't give me my book back, I will rally the rocks' families against you! Mwa ha ha!**

**JeanMarie****- indeed, there is another version of POTO written by British author Susan Kay. It is a retelling entitled "Phantom" that follows Erik pretty much from the moment he's expelled from the womb to the moment he goes up to glory. It's very popular in the fandom, and considered more or less accepted cannon. I personally have mixed feelings about it, I loved parts of it, but other parts of it really destroyed some things for me. Do read it, though, if you can get your hands on a copy. It's out of print, so the library is your best bet, or you can try or E-bay.**

**doe eyed dryad- interesting that you should ask that…**

NADIR

I was awoken by the pale shafts of broken light filtering in through my small, dusty, grimy window. The morning shimmered like pale gold, bathing the scene with an antique, sepia toned atmosphere. A smell like a dusty library lingered in the early air as I inhaled my first waking breath of the day.

I rolled over and groaned aloud. Not even this picturesque ambiance was enough to make me want even vaguely to get out of bed. I fumbled around on the pine night table for my still-open pocket watch, gazing at it with bleary eyes. It was quite past the "decent hour"-that magical time of day between eight o'clock in the morning and nine at night when all respectable business was expected to be done- and yet, I saw no reason to get up. Erik wasn't expecting me until mid afternoon, and, as usual, I had no other engagements that day. Might as well sleep however long I pleased.

Reaching out as far as I could, I managed to slam the shutters on the little window shut without rising from my languid position. Contented, I was about to roll over and lose myself once more in the swirling abyss of darkness and dreams, when a jarring blow was struck to the door of my flat.

I reacted with such surprise it was a miracle of Allah I didn't fall straight out of my bed. Sitting up, I rubbed my eyes, and contemplated whether or not I had actually heard the knock. A second round of polite knocking dispelled all of my doubt. I sprang out of bed, cheeks hot, and bounded over to my wardrobe. "Un moment!" I called breathlessly, as I hurried to make myself decent.

Awkwardly bounding into the next room while still buttoning up my trousers, I wondered who might be knocking. True, it wasn't exactly early, per se, but I had little business with anyone in Paris aside from Erik, who had no reason come here anyway. Besides, if he really wanted something, he wouldn't have waited so patiently. He would have blown down the door by the time I had gotten my shirt on.

"Désolé! I'm very sorry!" I apologized hastily as I opened the door. A woman stood there, in relatively simple dress. She had a headfull of orange and grey frizz, and wore wire-framed spectacles that obscured her rather large eyes. She looked old enough to be mine or Erik's mother, in her seventies at least. Her skin was gnarled and spotted with age, and it draped over a frame that was as skeletal in appearance as Erik's, though she was slightly taller than either of us.

"I am Marie Perrault," she stated. Her voice quavered with an inherent and seemingly ever-present timidity.

"Nadir Kahn," I replied cordially, shaking her hand, which felt like its brittle bones might snap in my firm grip. Against the warm brown of my own skin, her flesh appeared a sickly grey.

"You are a friend of Erik's?" she asked. She eyed my tousled, thinning grey hair and wrinkled attire with politely concealed distaste, however, as reading emotions was a part of my profession, it was rather transparent to my keen sight.

"Yes," I replied, trying vainly to smooth a crease in my shirt. "Please forgive my appearance. I was caught rather off guard, still in bed actually."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, her eyes growing even rounder, "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to wake you…"

"No, no, it's quite alright. I'm getting rather lazy lately; it's good for me to be out and about before lunchtime." I gave a laugh that sounded rather more forced than I would have liked.

She returned it with an equally forced chuckle of her own. "Come in! Come in!" I said, leading her to a seat on the sofa. "Can I get you some tea?"

"No thank you," she replied. I stopped, confused. Invite the lady in, offer her tea, she didn't want any, now what was I supposed to do? Awkwardly, I sat down adjacent to her, changing positions several times before finally speaking.

"So…you've come to help Erik with the baby?" I asked, attempting to drum up some conversation.

"Yes…" she replied, slowly. Then, "If it is not too much to ask, Monsieur…how did Erik happen to come by a child?"

"She is his…" I answered, equally cautious. "There was…a woman, a woman that…that undoubtedly felt _something_ for him…though…though I…I myself am not certain that it was indeed…indeed, well…love. And together, they had a child. But she left…she returned to her world, the man that she truly loved, and Erik has the girl."

Marie Perrault looked slightly shocked. "Pardon me, Monsieur…a woman..._consorted_…with Erik?"

I nodded slowly.

There was an awkward pause.

"So," I began, rather louder and more sharply than I had intended to, "how is it that you came to meet Erik?"

"I was a friend of his mother's," replied Mademoiselle Perrault, seeming glad for the change of subject. "I helped take care of him when he was young. I haven't seen him since he came back to the house three days after she died…"

"How long ago was that?" I inquired, the police officer in me surfacing once again.

"Oh, I don't know…" she replied. "Several years ago."

So this was after he had left Persia, I noted, filing the trivial fact away for further use.

"We met in Persia," I offered. "He was court magician for the shah there, for a time. Then there were…some circumstances, and we both left, reuniting coincidentally here in Paris."

Perrault looked intrigued, and I could tell that she was very interested in exactly what Erik had been up to these past forty or so years, but she restrained, in a polite, ladylike manner, herself from bludgeoning me with questions.

"So," she said instead, "are we going to go speak with Erik and the child?"

"Oh!" I said, realizing that I should have thought of that immediately. "Of course. Just give me a few moments to tidy up, and then we shall be off."

"Where does he live?" She asked.

I sighed. This was going to be an interesting little opera that unfolded around my friend and his children, I could tell. "Someplace…unconventional…"

>>>>>>>>>>>

"This is where you _live_?" Marie Perrault sputtered incredulously,

"Mmmhmm," conceded Erik groggily, still fumbling about with the laces of his mask. Like myself, Erik was a late sleeper, especially since late nights trying to calm Etoile, or holding a pot beneath her to catch her vomit had become the norm. He blinked, finished tying his mask, and held out his skeletal hand. The scene was almost a direct repeat of the events that had elapsed at my own home earlier, I observed with some humor. Erik and I were more alike than we imagined, as scary as that thought sounded to my calm, rational mind.

She shook his hand, looking slightly confused. Obviously, she had yet to learn that Erik tended to be far less imposing in the morning.

"I presume you have been well," he said formally.

"Oh, yes, quite," she replied. "My mother just passed away at ninety, I believe I told you about that in my letter," Erik's eyes flashed with the mention of it, though with amusement or fury of some sort, I could not say, "but other than that sad occasion, I have been doing very nicely. And you?"

"I wish I could say the same. Unfortunately, I have experienced just the inverse, mainly tragedy with a few brief moments of amusement. Though I suppose that accompanies the profession. Being the Opera Ghost is such a morbid position."

"The Opera Ghost?" Perrault murmured, comprehension dawning on her face. Of course she would have heard about the chandelier incident, and its ghastly connotations, and I had the impression she knew Erik well enough not to put such an episode past him. I could see fear awaken in her deeply lined face.

"Yes. Not the most enjoyable occupation, but it is a decent living, and one must feed one's children," Erik drawled. He was obviously trying to lay everything out on the table. If there was to be drama, I would think he wanted it good and done with.

"So, that is why I have come, is it not?" she replied, as nonchalantly as she could muster, though I noticed that she bit her lip rather frequently. "Why don't you introduce me to the baby?"

"Of course. Just a moment," Erik answered, sweeping out of the room, obviously fully awake now.

"He's not as awful as he makes himself out to be," I reassured Mademoiselle Perrault in a whisper. "He does a few pranks every now and then for money. Personally, I of course disagree with his means, but the opera really does have money to spare..." She just looked at me, eyes pleading. I sighed. "He is a good man, Mademoiselle. Beneath his whole 'Phantom' act, he still has an honest heart. Trust me. I have witnessed it. Just give the man a chance. Do it for the baby."

She nodded slowly as Erik reentered the room, Etoile in his arms. "Mademoiselle Perrault, this is Etoile."

Marie Perrault made a slight involuntary choking noise, her glasses sliding down her nose a bit, and her skin turning a shade pale enough to make Erik look like an African. "Oh, Erik dear…" she sputtered, "she has your…eyes."

Erik nodded, amusement and ineffable sadness dancing through his yellow orbs almost simultaneously. "Indeed, she does."


	9. Joy in the Dark

**Snow day! Of course I wouldn't be so inconsiderate as to have a whole day off from school and not give you an update, so here you are ;-). And look, it isn't midnight!**

** flamingices- Actually, I've read that story, and I thought the same thing at first, but they do grow apart as they go on. It may have been a coincidence :shrug: Even if not, there isn't much I can do about it, so I'll just live and let live.**

** K9- I just got your review today, so I hope this qualifies as soon enough for you. ;-)  
**

CHRISTINE

Raoul and I waited nervously in the back of the room as the doctor solemnly poked and prodded Verrill. His face was impassive, utterly emotionless, as though he was examining a broken pipe rather than a real, living, breathing child. I distrusted doctors of all kinds, and this particular specimen did little to relieve these preconceived ideas.

I felt Raoul's hand, strong, warm and dry, twine it's muscular fingers with my own. I squeezed his hand, a wave comfort akin to walking in from a cold winter's day and sitting before a glowing, crackling fire washing over me. With my other hand, I nervously wrenched at a fold in the drape of my dress, the pale pink material absorbing the beads of sweat appearing along my fingertips. A cloud of utter silence enclosed the room. I feared one ragged breath, one tap of my foot, one soft whisper, would bring the whole world collapsing in around us, all of its invisible elements colliding in a single deafening explosion.

The silence was finally broken by the doctor, his smart black shoes striking the floorboards crisply as he made his way toward Raoul and me. I heard myself gasp slightly, involuntarily, as I released Raoul's hand and my contorted dress simultaneously. "What is it?" I asked, sharply, breathily, and in a completely unladylike fashion.

"The first time I came here, you said that he had a high fever, frequent vomiting, and was sleeping a great deal?"

"Indeed," replied Raoul, nodding slowly. His eyes were dark with worry.

"And you said earlier this morning that he seemed to have gotten better since that visit?"

Raoul nodded again.

"But he was exhibiting strange behavior…pray elaborate on that a second time?"

"He seems to be having a difficult time getting hold of things we hand to him," Raoul answered. "And he keeps walking into things, walls, furniture, people…"

"He seems disoriented," I added.

The doctor nodded, scratched his whiskered chin, and appeared to be contemplating. Without changing this pose, he turned around and paced back toward Verrill's cradle. He waved a hand over Verrill's face. Nodding, he then reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and tried to hand it to Verrill. Verrill did not react. He continued to nod his head. The motion was beginning to drive me mad, and I began to twist at the fabric of my dress again, murderously.

The doctor made his way back toward us. I inhaled deeply, bracing myself for whatever the diagnosis might be. Each beat of my heart coincided with an ominous crack of his shoe against the floor, amplified a hundredfold by the depth of the silence in the room. He stopped before us, seeming to take a great deal of time to bring his right foot even with his left. When he finally spoke, I felt as thought my heart might burst forth from my chest.

"Have you a rattle of some sort?"

I exhaled, feeling my entire stature palpably sag. If someone had so much as blown on me at that moment, I would have fallen straight to the floor. "Yes," I replied, deadpan. "Yes, I shall go and get it."

I made the arduous journey across the room, feeling like I was traversing a Persian desert rather than a nursery. My throat was dry as I retrieved the rattle and handed it to the doctor, my eyes unblinking. I watched him like a vulture, every fiber of my being waiting, waiting…

The doctor waved the rattle before Verrill, who inclined his head, reached up, and clumsily took it. Once it was in his grasp, he horded it like a dragon protecting a trove of gold and jewels, delighting in the sound. The doctor nodded yet again, this time with a certain finality about it, and I felt my blood pressure race again. Soon _I_ would be the one who need a doctor.

"The sickness he suffered was probably some relative of the scarlet fever," said the doctor. "It was quite a bit more serious than I had at first realized. It seems to have robbed the child of his sight."

My eyes widened in shock. I felt Raoul's arms supporting me, and if not for his quick reaction, I might have collapsed. I grabbed them like a sailor seeking something to balance himself during a violent tempest. "Will he ever recover it?" I gasped.

"I'm afraid that is highly unlikely, Madame," replied the doctor. Dismissing me as a swooning mother, he addressed only Raoul next. "It is a blessing that he so young. At this age, he will learn how to get along without it very quickly and with little help. Watch him carefully to make sure he doesn't injure himself, but give him a free reign to experiment, and he should be fine. Most blind these days are able to live perfectly normal lives. It is truly not as grave as it may seem right now. Now, Monsieur, may we talk about my fee…?"

He led Raoul out of the room, leaving me standing there, alone, leaning against the wall for support. Verrill, my perfect child, was blind. Still stunned, I turned my glassy eyes skyward. What deity up there held me in such contempt lately? What heinous act of mine had invoked all of this malice?

And then I turned my eyes downward. Toward the streets that I knew led to Paris. And in Paris, five stories beneath these very streets, dwelt the one that I should be addressing.

"Damn you, Erik!" I breathed. Then I finally began to cry.

That was the state Raoul discovered me in, on returning from escorting the doctor out. I sat on the floor, Verrill in my arms, using the corner of his blanket to dry my tears, which had given way to dry sobs. He sat down next to me. I could see tears glimmering in his own eyes, but he held them back. He held my shoulders, and I slid Verrill over so he was evenly distributed between our two laps.

Raoul did not try to stop me from crying with useless words of comfort, or make light of my grief. He just held me tightly, gently running his fingers through my hair, and let me weep on his shoulder. He seemed to understand that what I needed was a calm in the storm, to hold on to. Words would have been meaningless. His warm presence spoke volumes.

The bond between Raoul and Verrill grew immensely and quickly in the following days. Raoul would sit up with him at night when he cried, rocking him, and singing to him softly in his gentle, calm baritone which filled me with warmth rather than fear and awe. He never took his eyes off the boy, watching him with a constant vigilance as he adjusted to his new condition. It did not seem to affect him very much: he smiled and laughed just as much as before, and even more when his father was around to play with him. Verrill delighted in sounds, and especially music even more now, and Raoul and I learned to play games with him that involved singing and clapping.

My worries were waylaid, for the moment. Little had changed with Verrill bar the amount of supervision he required. He still loved it when I sang to him, and seemed to love it just as much when Raoul did, though he was somewhat more reluctant to open his mouth.

"Come Raoul, Verril wants a song, and I have a cold! Sing to him!" I teased with a smile.

Raoul laughed and shook his head. "Christine de Chagny, you know I cannot sing!"

"Of course you can, my dear," I replied lovingly.

"You are the most talented singer in France," he replied. "I cannot sing in front of you! You will laugh at me!"

"I will not!" I grinned, shoving him on the shoulder jestingly.

"Oh yes you will!"

It became a pastime for the three of us, on quiet afternoons, to sit near the piano, while I did my best to give Raoul a singing lesson. Verrill's face would light up with an expression that could melt the iciest heart, and Raoul and I would laugh nearly as much as he. I looked forward to these afternoons like a child to Christmas. An air of happiness surrounded the de Chagny house. It became a place full of music and laughter. As our "lessons" progressed, not only did Raoul actually improve, but he became less self conscious, and there was singing all the time. Even our servants sang. Verrill could not have been more delighted.

And, I realized, as I sat by the fire one afternoon, glancing over my book at Raoul and Verrill, who sat before the fireplace playing a rhythm game by banging on the floor, neither could I. I was surrounded by the two most powerful forces in life: love and music. I had finally found that happiness that came with true contentment. Our lives were not perfect, but they were filled with joy nonetheless. Verrill's blindness, which had come as a curse, brought with it a blessing. It brought our little family closer together than ever.


	10. The Little Demon

**Sorry for the absence of an update…I would have updated sooner, but my arm has been in a splint. Now I'm free! Free! Free! And to celebrate, I present to you a new chapter, fairly long….**

**PS- Thank you Elizabeth! I'm an art idiot, my apologies **

MARIE PERRAULT

Erik swept through the street as though the cobblestones were hot coals. His head had receded increasingly farther into his cloak as we progressed, and his felt hat was pulled low over his eyes. If you weren't looking for it, the glint of his white mask was nearly invisible between his collar and the brim of his hat. Yet, for all his awkward posture, he moved like a cat. He was an ageless shadow in the crowd of people on the street, and several times I was sure I had lost him. I followed, rather, the Persian gentleman, Nadir, who seemed to have grown adroit at following him, and hardly missed a beat. I hardly took my eyes off his astrakhan cap for the entire short journey through the Paris streets.

We arrived at a building, rather old and quaint. I remembered Erik's fetish with architecture, and recognized his selection as a manifestation of it. He would have never given money to one of the squat, grey, new buildings that now lined the city streets.

No one spoke as we tramped up the stairs, and I found myself becoming acutely aware of the creak every one of our footfalls produced. I twisted my fingers in my shawl, opened my mouth to say something irrelevant and trivial, and then remained silent. One only spoke around Erik when there was something to be said. After all the years since the last time I'd seen him, he had retained the same imposingness, the same nonchalant manner, the same biting sarcasm. Only, there was a difference. He was somehow more subdued, quieter, and less ready to storm about in a fit of passionate rage. Where he would have been hot years ago, now he remained cold. His sarcasm was ice rather than fire. He seemed to be less cynical, and instead more exhausted with the world. He gave out an air of being resigned; to his appearance, to his fate. It was as though he had finally found a way to fit into his own skin. These changes were as difficult to explain as they were to describe, but I had decided either his relationship with the mother of his child, the birth of the child herself, or both, were the catalysts.

We reached a landing, and Erik stopped, reaching into the depths of his cloak and producing a key from his vest pocket. He unlocked the door before us, and led me in, pulling me after him without actually touching me. I felt myself the prisoner of some strange magnetism, and shuddered. He handed me the key, still refraining from even the slightest brushing of fingers. I could hardly believe those careful hands had lovingly held a baby less than an hour earlier.

"This is the flat that I have rented for you," he said, his voice echoing ominously off the walls. The apartment was actually quite nice, spacious enough for one, and fully furnished. "I trust you will make yourself comfortable here. I would be much obliged if you would meet Nadir in front of the opera at 9:00 every morning. He will show you to my home." Here Erik's eyes flashed in his friend's direction. Seconds before, they were cold and impassive, but the look he gave the Persian was almost….playful. I began to wonder, yet again, if perhaps I was in over my head. Erik, now standing straight at his full height, mask completely visible, continued, "Your help is very much appreciated….I presume it is still Mademoiselle?" I nodded my consent on this point. "Farewell. I shall see you in the morning." He and the Persian left.

I sat down, almost stunned by the mornings events. It had turned out that Erik made his living by assuming the role of the phantom of the opera he lived beneath; exploiting the superstition associated with the business to blackmail and torment the management into providing him with a monthly salary. Though this was hardly out of character for the masked devil, it was still more that I had bargained for. I felt had traveled farther to get from the grand staircase of the opera house to the front door of the phantom's lair than I had to get from my home outside Rouen to Paris. I could hardly imagine making such a terrible descent every morning for the rest of my life. And suppose I was caught? The perpetrator of the infamous chandelier incident was a sought-after criminal. What price would I pay for fraternizing with this madman?

Besides, once I was across that icy bridge, I would find that I had skidded into the monster's underground cave, the normalcy of which made it extremely sinister, and that I was locked there all day, alone with this demon child, that had inherited quite a bit more from her father than his eyes. I massaged my temples. What on earth could I do? I needed a place to live: I had no money to pay for the upkeep of my mother's house; it had all gone into the treatment for her disease. It seemed I had no choice, which somehow made things easier. I steeled myself, and made the inevitable decision to discover a bravery that had only surfaced once, years ago, when a little boy's mother would not keep him from breaking a mirror with his desperate fists.

I arrived at the opera the next morning, as I had promised. The Persian was waiting for me. Groggy and unkempt as the first time I had encountered him, he led me nonchalantly through the cold labyrinth beneath the opera. This time, I allowed myself to look around. It was like a palace out of a twisted fairy tale, its gloomy scenery ever-changing. "Whoever built a maze like this?" I remarked.

"Erik," the Persian replied, matter-of-factly. I knew he was telling the truth. I felt a womanish curiosity compelling me. I could not help but wonder about Erik's life in the past years, his mysterious hauntings, his inexplicable consort, his involvement in the construction of this building. The Persian had mentioned that they had met in his home country, where Erik was a right hand to the Shah. He had led a life of great intrigue- I yearned for the tale like an avid reader yearns for the next page of a book.

I met Erik in the entrance, he showed me to Etoile, I took care of her while Erik disappeared to an unknown task for some hours, and left when he returned. This cycle continued, day after day, rather unremarkably. My fears were misplaced, it seemed. The real interest lied in the hours between Erik's departure and return.

Etoile rarely slept. She could walk jerkily, and speak with a limited vocabulary. Her hands were in everything. There were many substances and objects I could not identify scattered throughout the house, and I had to watch the child like a hawk. Her look of delight when she apprehended one of these things in spite of me sent shivers down my spine. I feared her like one fears a spider. She was small and harmless, yet never ceased to instill a certain terror in me. The more she came to rely on her own two feet, the less Erik held her, and the less Erik held her, the less she wanted to be touched in general. If I gently held her hand to lead her toward or away from something, she would scream bloody murder, and jerk away, often bolting and disappearing for the rest of the hour before I discovered the site of her retreat. Her favourite word was "no," and she used it often.

One day, she had disappeared yet again, and I reluctantly came to the end of my general search route. Almost trembling, I laid my hand on the door to the bedroom- if it could be called that. It resembled, more closely, a funeral parlour. The walls were black, and a border that was really a large musical staff with the notes of a requiem sullenly scrawled across it ran about the perimeter of the entire room. A large pipe organ took up nearly an entire wall. Etoile's cradle sat in the corner. However, the most frightening aspect of the room was where Erik slept, which happened to be inside a large black coffin. I averted my gaze from it as I opened the door, and walked slowly across the room. I found Etoile sitting upright in the cradle, examining something on the wall. I squinted through the lenses of my thick spectacles, and gasped when I realized that Etoile had stepped back to examine her work: a crude pencil doodle of a small girl with feathered wings, drawn right on the wall. The silver of the lead against the dark wall flashed in the light as I drew nearer.

"Etoile!" I scolded, horrified. "When your father gets home! Oh…Oh sweet Jesus!"

"Pretty," insisted Etoile, gesturing toward her mural with the end of the pencil she had managed to get a hold of.

"Yes, yes, it is pretty," I admitted, nearly on the verge of hysterics, "But it belongs on paper, Etoile. Not on the walls!"

"Pretty, pretty, pretty!" Etoile insisted.

"Oh dear," I breathed, swiftly picking up Etoile and apprehending the pencil in question. "What am I goring to tell your father? You must never, ever do this again, Etoile. Never!"

"Why? Why no?" Etoile whined, kicking to be let down, but I held fast.

"You are coming to help me in the kitchen, where I can watch you, and you are staying there until your father gets home, whether you like it or not!" I said, not knowing what else to do. I tried to get Etoile to help me with the bread dough, but she seemed far more interested with unwinding a bit of string she had discovered on the floor into tiny fibres. I gave up, and left her to her business, stopping her every once in a while as she tried to make a move toward the door. When my back was turned, she started to eat the string.

I allowed her to run to Erik when he got home, and he ran a hand through her delicate baby hair as his soul greeting. "Hello my little demon," he said affectionately as she gained her balance using his pant leg. Laughing softly, he took her hand and led her back toward the kitchen where I waited, taking my nerves out on the bread dough.

"How was she today?" he asked, casually, routinely.

"Actually…" I replied. Unable to choke out the rest of the sentence, I gestured for him to follow me. His eyes were concerned as I led him into the bedroom. Wordlessly, I pointed out the silver scrawl on the walls.

I waited, nervously, eyes half shut in anticipation. Then, something strange happened. Erik began to laugh, softly and coldly at first, but crescendoing into a more normal, warm tone. I felt a tangible wave of warmth go over me. "It appears I have a regular Da Vinci living in my home," he choked. Still cracking up, he retrieved Etoile, leading her back into the room by her hand, lips in a twisted grin. "I'll strike a bargain with you, Etoile. This wall," he gestured, "is yours, completely, as long as you stay away from the rest of the walls in the house. How does that sound?"

Etoile grinned, and clapped once joyfully. "Yes!" she said. It was the first time I had heard the word from her mouth. "Mine. Mine, mine, mine!"

Erik nodded, patting her gently on the back. He rarely made skin to skin contact with her, or anyone for that matter. "Yours. Just try not to give Madomoiselle Perrault anymore frights," He said. "Such privileges may be revoked, if the need arises."

"No, never!" said Etoile joyfully, barrelling from the room. Erik shook my hand cordially. His flesh was cool and dry. "Thank you, that shall be all. I will see you in the morning."

Anther incident that was burned into my mind occurred several days later. Etoile had taken a matchbook from the mantle, and hidden it somewhere in the house. I was on a desperate quest to find it before the entire opera burned down. I was ready for the smell of the smoke any second. Etoile danced in and out of my path, taunting me. "Where? Where? Where?" she chanted. "Where is the fire stick? You won't know!" She dashed out of the room again. I heard a drawer open and close in the next room over, and entered the bedroom. Etoile had already exited by the time I arrived, but the drawer she had attempted to hide the matches in was too heavy for her, and left slightly ajar. I pulled it open, and sure enough, there they were. I was about to shut the drawer when something caught my attention. A box, small, square and plain, wrapped in a delicate lady's handkerchief. The name "Christine" was embroidered on it. Pocketing the matches, I slowly drew out the box, careful not to disturb any other contents of the drawer.

I opened the lid gently, silent though the house was empty save for myself and Etoile. I leafed through the curious objects within. There was a newspaper clipping from the beginning of the year, adorned by a photograph of a lovely, wavy-haired opera singer. The title read, "Christine Daae Triumphs at Gala". I put this aside, and examined the rest. There were more newspaper articles of the same nature, a vial containing a single long strand of wavy hair, a letter written in a lady's script, a ring on a delicate chain, a dead rose pressed between the pages of the operatic score of "Faust". I would have continued, but I heard the sound of the water in the nearby lake being disturbed. Hastily, I put back all the items into the box, but lingered on the first article in spite of my terror. Christine Daae…could this be Erik's woman?

I misjudged the distance of the initial splash, and the sound of the complicated front door lock startled me into a frenzy. I tried to replace everything as quickly as I could, but it was too late: the next thing I new, Erik stood beside me, towering above my kneeling figure.

"_What_ are you doing?" he growled. I felt tears begin to form in my eyes, heat consolidating in my cheeks.

"Etoile…was hiding…a book of matches," I stammered, fumbling in my pocket for them.

With a snarl like an animal, Erik grabbed my wrist and threw me upon the floor. "Never," he shouted, voice full of a menacing thunder, "go through my belongings again. And NEVER speak of the owner of those items. Women die from such curiosity, mademoiselle! Would you like to try me?" He spun around so quickly the hem of his cloak flared out and brushed my fallen form. He stood there for a while, shoulders heaving. I remained where I was, sprawled across the floor, paralysed, silent tears running freely down my face.

Slowly, he turned. "I apologize for my conduct," he said, offering me his hand. I took it, my entire body shaking fearfully at his deadly calm. "That was completely unacceptable. You may go. I expect you have gotten the message." He turned his back to me once more, and I hurried out, not looking back as I scrambled through the open door and into the boat. When I arrived home, I slammed the door behind me, and sank to the floor against it. I knew not what to do. Invoking god I sank sobbing to the floor.

ERIK

Christine had lost no power over me. When I had seen Mademoiselle Perrault going through the box of her things I had buried in a derelict drawer, something within me had simply snapped, the same way it had the night I offered Christine the scorpion or the grasshopper. I was regretful, depression ate at me once more, and I sat on the couch with my masked face buried in my hands. I always wore my mask now. I feared that I would frighten Etoile if she saw me without it. I even slept in it; my last thought before falling asleep was always that sooner or later it would stifle me at night. Normally, this would not have bothered me in the least, but now I had something to live for. I could not leave my child alone, not yet. She still had no magic mask; she was still vulnerable.

I felt trapped once more. Two new managers had arrived that night. I had planned to observe them in the morning. But I had no idea if Mademoiselle Perrault would even return after the way I had treated her. Most of all, I was still at the mercy of that unknowing temptress that had been my angel, even after all my redemption. I was pathetic. How could I expect to raise a child, when I could not even protect myself?

"Papa?" Etoile sat down beside me. She fingered my watch chain gently. "Why are you sad?"

I sighed, shaking my head gently, and rose. "Come with me, Etoile."

I played the organ for her late into the night. We both fell asleep at the keyboard.

I awoke the next morning, surprised to find a tentative Marie Perrault standing over me. "I'm sorry!" she said quickly. "I didn't know that--"

"It's quite alright, Mademoiselle," I cut in. Etoile had somehow remained asleep. I lowered my voice. "Don't wake her; just set her in the cradle. I shall be back late tonight." I donned my cloak and hat and left.

I was astonished. Mademoiselle Perrault may have been a weak little mouse, but this façade hid a courage that astonished me. It would peep out only when she needed it most direly, and quickly be buried again in seconds, but it rivalled that of a gladiator. I could hardly believe that she would return to the home of a madman who had threatened to kill her. This feeling sat in my stomach like a bad bit of food for my entire journey to the managers' office. I was pleased to discover on glancing through the false ventilator that they were both present. As I turned to find a place where I could be comfortable and still observe, I heard something that caused me to stop dead.

"Is everything clear, Basset?" once of them asked.

"Oh, yes," replied another voice.

"Good," said the first, and I heard a shoe hit the floor, and then another hit the wall. The sound of pants slithering down reached my ears. Then a moan.

"Yes, yes! More!"

"Calm down, Ramsden, do you want someone to hear?"

"Let them hear, love. Let them hear." More erotic noises. In spite of myself, I chanced a quick look though the ventilator. My eyebrows shot up so high they were practically above my mask. I turned away, knowing I had seen enough. The perfect blackmail had just presented itself to me, gift-wrapped and on a silver platter. It looked as though I would be home early that night.


	11. After a Year

**Sorry it's taking so long to get these out. You know, real life. It sucks. I'm glad you're enjoying this, and I have no intention of abandoning it, so enjoy!**

RAOUL

I gazed across the table at Christine, whose lovely features were highlighted by the single candle in the middle of the table in such a way as to make them positively seraphic. Verrill had already been put to sleep, and we were enjoying a late, romantic dinner together. There was a feeling of warmth all around, defying the creeping chill of autumn that was beginning to take hold. I would have felt very well contented, but for one thing that was nagging me. An odd feeling in the pit of my stomach that I could not place or explain had been plaguing my waking and sleeping hours for the past few days. I knew that my brain was forgetting something that my gut was apparently remembering, but the latter was completely inept at communicating with the former, so the sensation simply persisted.

Somehow I had gotten into my head that a good meal filling up my stomach would dispel the obnoxious flutters, so I had eaten for two that night. This served only to make me very sick to my stomach and make my trousers feel quite constricting. Christine was sipping her wine and making light conversation, about the weather, the goings on in the town, Verrill's favourite stories and such. I attempted to return the conversation despite my clandestine frustration at my own forgetfulness and the ebbing and flowing urge to vomit, but could not bring myself to touch the wine. The thought of putting anything else in my stomach, even in liquid form, was enough to make me queasy.

"Oh, and today, when I was out shopping, I found this, and I knew it would be the perfect present for Verrill!" She said, retrieving a miniature tambourine from a package on the nearby credenza.

"What's the occasion?" I asked absently, while my thoughts were really focused on a discrete way to loosen my belt.

"Oh, Raoul, I'm ashamed of you!" Christine scolded playfully. "You can't even remember your own son's birthday?"

Click.

Presently the fluttering sensation in my stomach was substituted with one recalling a load of bricks settling in the bottom. This was amplified by the fact that I had just consumed about as much in the past hour as in the past three days. I remembered suddenly. Etoile and Erik, whom I had felt so guilty for leaving, I know felt guilty forgetting. And tomorrow was the only day I had to see how Etoile was getting along; and, almost as importantly, to prove to Erik that I was a man of my word. However, it would be just as easy not to go. I could forget about them, couldn't I? I could pretend Etoile had never existed, just as I had pretended Erik had never existed until she was born. Just like Christine still pretended. Erik had seemed a little off the last time; he had been to coldly civil, to reasonable, to sane. I knew that I couldn't count on the possibility that he was a changed man. Fulfilling this particular promise could quite possibly be synonymous with digging my own grave. Wouldn't it be so much easier just to walk away?

No. No, not for me. I knew that I would be haunted by guilt, among other complex emotions, for the rest of my life. If I thought the butterflies of the last few days had been difficult, imagine the agony of swallowing this sparrow. I wanted to see how Etoile was doing. In the few hours which I had known her I had become attached to her. Wasn't I, indirectly, just as much her father as Erik? She had spent more time with me than with her mother, at least. I had a responsibility to her, but also a responsibility to Christine. Etoile was still Christine's child, albeit a child Christine had never heard from, and I felt the need to protect her as a service to Christine.

I wondered what the hell I was thinking giving her to Erik in the first place. Erik was a dangerous and unstable man, not to mention a thief, murderer, and stalker. How could he possibly take care of a baby? How could a man who had likely been shunned by his own mother and lived alone most of his life know anything about playing with children, feeding them, changing their filthy diapers, keeping them from getting hurt. I wondered if he treated her well, if she liked him, if she took after him. I wondered if she wore a mask like his, if she had contact with anyone other than him. Biting my lip so hard it hurt more than my stomach, I wondered if she was even still alive.

"Raoul?"

"Yes?" I stammered, starting out of my reverie.

"Raoul, are you alright?"

"Of course. I had a bit much to eat, but other than that, I'm very well, actually. It's a beautiful night isn't it?

Christine frowned. "Alright. I just…I thought I saw you crying a few minutes ago. Are you sure there isn't anything bothering you?"

"No, no. It's just that…that…" I thought fast, and was forced to make a fast decision, which gave me the distinct impression I would spend the rest of the night regretting it, along with my several helpings of supper. "Well, I just received post that a very dear friend of my family has fallen ill, and was absent-minded enough to promise I would set out for a visit tomorrow night. I can't believe I forgot about Verrill's birthday."

"Oh, that's such sad news," said Christine, pulling her chair next to me. She wrapped her arms about my shoulders and laid her head on the right one. "Of course, you must go; it really wouldn't be kind to go back on your word. Besides, you won't miss much. Verrill goes to sleep early." She smiled.

I took a deep breath. "I love you, dear," I said, and felt awful.

Though Christine did her best to comfort me, I spent the rest of the night swinging between dread-filled despair and acute nausea. She sensed that there was more wrong then I was letting on, though I don't think she even came close to guessing the extent of it, and sat up with me quite late. However, my wife wore out before my horribly frayed nerves, and drifted off to sleep a little after midnight. After a few hours' futile attempt to follow her, I angrily threw off the covers and descended the stairs to the study.

I tried to distract myself with a book, but found after a while that I had not turned a page in about an hour. I must have dozed lightly on and off in the armchair, for I found myself watching the sun rise with a stiff back, a disgruntled stomach, and a book hanging loosely from my grip. The sun continued its customary climb upward, seeming to spite me as I willed it to go back down or at least stay put. I could almost see the veins in my own eyes.

"Raoul, dear," Christine remarked, entering the study several hours later with a rosy Verrill, "you look like you had a horrible night."

"Do I?" I asked. "It must be something I ate."

"Well…if that's all…I'm putting together a big dinner for everyone in the house today. Come help Bridget put up the decorations. There were all sorts of lovely things left in the attic by the previous owners! And we can sing while we do it!"

I didn't have the heart to remind Christine that Verrill wouldn't know a thing about the decorations unless he happened to walk into some of them. I decided it was best that I kept my cynical mood to myself. Wearily, I set off to get properly dressed and erect the various streamers and baubles Christine and the servants had brought down from the attic. All morning Christine whirled around the kitchen singing gaily, slightly inconvenienced by the restive Verrill always at her hip, and her beautiful voice actually did help raise my spirits, as did the ten or so cups of highly caffeinated tea that I slammed down upon entering the kitchen. However, when the clock struck noon, I found myself yearning for something harder than tea.

We set the table elaborately, and sat down to eat, Verrill in his baby chair next to Christine. She fed him while chattering with the various servants and the milk man, who happened to have our house as his last stop that day, and so accepted our invitation to join us. I tried very hard not to be to quiet, and fear very much I may have talked too much.

Verrill was delighted by the small tambourine, and began to beat it noisily immediately, effectively clearing the dining room in less time than it took to fill it. Christine laughed and talked some more while assisting with the clean up, and I nodded a lot and heard very little. I felt that I would soon burst from my anxiety.

Christine went to lay Verrill down for his nap, as I sat in the parlour alone, staring off into space and compulsively tearing up a small bit of paper I had discovered in my pocket. When she re-entered the room, I stood up. "I suppose I should be along now," I said, perhaps a bit too quickly, for she looked concerned.

"Yes…" she replied, unconvincingly. "But Raoul, if there's anything wrong…"

"I wouldn't hesitate to tell you any more than I would hesitate to bandage a cut," I answered gracefully.

"Right…" she said, somewhat thrown by this unconventional idiom. It is amazing what your brain turns out when it's preoccupied, I mused. "Well, then. I love you." She wrapped me in a tight embrace. I felt elated and doomed to the innermost circle of hell at the same moment. I wished I could have frozen time in that spot, and just remained entwined with Christine until the earth fell into the sun, but unfortunately I was doomed to visit that damnable creature who hadn't seen the latter in years. Sighing, I donned my hat, coat and scarf, for the weather and for the chill that I acutely remembered feeling the last time I took the underground route to Erik's "lair", and walked out the door.

Several blocks and a short carriage ride later, I was on the train. The train that would carry me into hell, and if fate smiled on me, back out again. As the wheels began to turn, I felt suddenly aware of my exhaustion. I was coming off of the caffeine from the tea, and motion of the train gently lolled me into slumber. I turned to the passenger occupying the seat beside me. "Excuse me, but are you travelling to Paris?"

"As it happens, yes. Why?" he asked, with a slight note of distrust.

"Would you mind waking me when we embark? I've had a rather too interesting day."

"Oh, of course. I know exactly what you mean," he responded, accompanying it with a wink and a nod.

I had very little time to contemplate what he could possibly be referring to before I drifted off.

NADIR

Erik was, to put it simply, absolutely mad. The thing that pushed this over the line separating something to be concerned about from hilarity was his transparent attempt to conceal it. "Do you think the fool will actually come?" he asked, failing miserably at sounding nonchalant. I had lost count of the amount of times this question had been posed to me, and also of the total of creative disguises that had accompanied it.

"Erik, I don't know. They live over near the boarder. I never see them during the day. I know nothing about them. If he comes, then he comes. If he doesn't, then he doesn't." For a second I regretted my exasperated tone, seeing Erik straiten and observing an angry gleam in his eye.

"If he comes then he will likely die, and if he does not there is little chance he'll survive," grumbled Erik.

"Erik, I have your word…"

"Yes, yes, you have my word, for what that's worth," he replied flippantly.

"Etoile, dear, stay away from the fireplace! Away!" Marie Perrault's voice echoed from the other room. Etoile ran giggling into the room, and then disappeared behind another door, swiftly followed by Mademoiselle Perrault.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to me for the first time that day. "Erik, if the Vicomte does come, how is he getting here? I mean, you don't think he'll come through the torture chamber again?"

"As per usual, I've thought of such things before you, Daroga," he drawled. "I left a note with the honourable Madame Giry, to deliver to the Vicomte if he should appear."

"What did you tell him to do?"

"To come by the lake entrance," Erik said simply. I figured pointing out that there was an impossible labyrinth leading up to said entrance that would certainly detain him for quite a while was somewhat pointless. Instead, I decided on more basic matters.

"You are going to invite him in for supper, aren't you?" I asked. Erik stared at me incredulously. "Well, it's only polite."

"Daroga, you are already stretching my nerves by forbidding me to harm the wretch," he snarled. "Now you want me to eat supper with him as well?" His eyes flamed beneath his mask.

"Well, what else are you going to do?" I asked. "'Oh, here she is, look at her, she's healthy, isn't that lovely? Well, nice seeing you, goodbye' and slam the door in his face?"

"Why ever not?" Erik retorted.

"Erik! You…"

"Alright. ALRIGHT! You have your way Daroga. I'll invite him in for supper. But know that the value of my word is sinking every second!" He stormed off toward the kitchen. Figuring he would need the help, I followed him.

"Daroga. When one storms out of a room, it is generally one's intention to escape the present company!" He raged.

"As if you are going to make a meal by your lonesome?"

He glared at me for a minute, but then turned and began busying himself cutting up some bread. Interpreting this as a concession, I started to sort out the dishes we would need.

Etoile barrelled into the room after we had been wordlessly preparing our rather paltry meal for a while. "Papa, papa!" She shouted, wrapping her arms about Erik's leg. His gloomy, threatening face broke into a mischievous half-smile as he picked her up. She squirmed a bit, not liking to be touched, even by her father, but settled rather quickly.

"Etoile," said Erik gently. "Today is your birthday. Because I want you to have one. It isn't at all like a requiem, you see. My mother was being quite a dolt when she told me that. It can be quite a happy day, when one chooses to celebrate it."

"What?" Etoile asked, confused, looking quizzically at Erik, who laughed warmly.

"Never mind. We're having a special supper tonight, and _I'm _going to give you a present."

"But why?" Etoile asked.

"Because you are born this day, precisely one year ago. And it was an important day for both you and me."

Etoile nodded slowly. I was certain she understood, but apparently Mademoiselle Perrault, who had followed her into the kitchen, was not. "It's like Christmas, Etoile."

"Christmas?" Etoile murmured. _Now_ she was confused.

"Christmas is the day Jesus Christ was born. It's a very special birthday."

"As far as I'm concerned, her birthday is far more important than any Jesus'," said Erik darkly, setting Etoile down. She scurried away with relief.

"Come, Etoile," said Marie Perrault nervously. "Nadir and your papa are busy." She led Etoile out of the kitchen.

Once we had gone back to work for a short while, Erik turned to me again. "I haven't got any milk." He said matter-of-factly.

"Talk to Mademoiselle Perrault. I'm not getting it," I said. "I have to stay here and distract you from contemplating amusing forms of homicide."

Erik looked faintly amused, but swept out of the room imperiously before I could get a second glance. "Well!" I huffed, rolling my eyes. When was he ever going to learn there was no need to show off to me? I found it fairly bothersome.

When he returned, he was just as ramrod straight and aloof as when he had left. "Can you keep an eye on Etoile for me while Mademoiselle Perrault is out?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes, fine." On my way out, I laid a hand on his shoulder. He shuddered under the touch a bit, even through his cloak, jacket, and shirt. "Erik, calm down a bit, would you?" I pleaded.

"Daroga…" But I turned and left before he could slap me with some witty retort.

I found Etoile in Erik's and her room, drawing on the wall with the stub of a lead pencil. When I entered, she turned around and sat obediently down in her crib. "Daroga, who's Jesus?" she asked. Etoile, probably going off of Erik's example, always called me Daroga. I had tried to get her to call me everything from just Nadir to Monsieur Kahn, but she always insisted on Daroga. It had been one of her first words.

I fielded the question carefully. "Well, some people consider him to be their god."

"What's that?" she asked.

I faltered. How could I explain this one? Maybe I should let Erik…

"Daroga!"

"The creator of everything, traditionally," I explained, "but there are many different traditions. You should ask your father about it later."

"Oh," she replied. She did not go back to her half-complete drawing, but sat fidgeting, in what appeared to be deep rumination. It made me slightly queasy to watch her stick her tiny fingers into the awful crevices in her ruined face, running them across the tender skin at the bottom. She also mussed up her one complete eyebrow quite a bit, which didn't help her in respect to looks very much at all. I didn't think it wise to leave her there alone, knowing that she had Erik's undeniable talent for getting into trouble, but was becoming quite bored with staring at the idle girl. Thankfully, before long Mademoiselle Perrault returned to relieve me.

Eventually, Erik and I were through denying convention as two men in the kitchen, Etoile finished her drawing and settled, consequently causing Marie Perrault to be finished with her job. We all sort of gathered in the drawing room near the fireplace. Etoile sat restlessly on the floor, playing with a large insect she had discovered on the ground. Mademoiselle Perrault and I sat awkwardly on the couch, and Erik paced furiously. Every time he changed direction his cloak whipped out menacingly behind him.

"If he doesn't come within the hour, I shall assume he is not coming at all," he stated.

"Sounds fair enough," I remarked, exhausted.

As if on command, the alarm bell near began to ring. Etoile, irritated, covered her ears with her hands. Erik halted and stared at it, then briskly made his way toward the front door. I followed him, flustered and anxious. "Erik, what do you have a mind to do?"

"Let my _guest_ in, Daroga," he said venomously.

"Erik…"

Erik worked the mechanism that unlocked the door, and sure enough, the Vicomte, looking as thoroughly harassed as Erik, could be seen making his way across the lake. Erik stared at him unabashedly, while I watched Erik. Though he had proven himself to me several times to be a friend, I still didn't trust him as far as I could throw him.

Presently, the Vicomte approached the shore, and Erik swiftly and soundlessly assisted him in docking the boat. When they were through, they stood facing each other, for a time.

"Erm, hello," said the Vicomte nervously.

Erik simply stared back. I saw his hand moving treacherously toward the cloak pocket where his Punjab Lasso was stashed…

"Hello, welcome, I trust you found your way with some ease," I interrupted. Erik snapped his head around toward me like an owl. He looked angry, but I saw his hand fall back at his side.

"Hello sir," he added, in a deadpan.

"I…I found my way with some difficulty," the Vicomte replied.

"Please, come in," I said. Erik opened his mouth to speak, but then shut in again and simply continued to glower at me.

Mademoiselle Perrault fluttered over. "Oh, hello sir, I'm Marie Perrault."

"Raoul de Chagny," the Vicomte answered, appearing slightly puzzled by her presence. They shook hands tentatively.

"And here is Etoile," Mademoiselle Perrault said, leading her by the hand. Etoile looked up at the Vicomte for a long minute, then toddled over to Erik, from whose shadow she could observe this newcomer safely. The Vicomte didn't appear at all disgruntled by uncovered countenance, which seemed to help Erik relax a bit.

"Etoile," he said, "this is your…Uncle Raoul."

Etoile hesitated another moment, but then gingerly made her way toward Raoul, and tugged on his pant leg. Raoul crouched down and smoothed back her hair a bit. Etoile had, within that first year, acquired a long shock of dark hair, resembling her mother's closely, that went all the way down her back and fell into her face. It was rather tangled, as she wouldn't allow us to put a brush to it, much less a scissor.

The Vicomte shook his head. "My, you have grown." Then he turned. "Well, I suppose I should thank you for your…erm…hospitality, and go before I start to im—"

"Nonsense," I said, "Erik was going to invite you to stay for supper. Weren't you Erik," I said pointedly.

"It seems Erik can't speak for himself anyway," the Phantom growled, "so who am I to argue?"

As Mademoiselle Perrault led the Vicomte into the dining room, followed by the intrigued Etoile, Erik and I hung back for a second to talk. "Daroga," he snarled, "I am perfectly capable of representing myself. I have no openings for a spokesman."

"Erik, I know very well what would happen if I weren't here. I'm here to help you, to keep you from doing things that you will regret."

"Why don't you trust me?" he replied, raising his voice.

"It's not that I don't—"

"Of course it is! Don't feed me such empty platitudes! I know you better than that. I know the world better than that, and you are just another member of it. Yes, Daroga, you are just like every one of them. 'Oh, look at that poor, lost soul' your little heart says. I don't need to be your charity case or your penitent. Do not conceal how much you hate all this time you spend down here! I know I'm just here to help you earn your little points toward your entry into paradise. Don't try to placate me!" he bellowed, as I opened my mouth to protest. "Enough! Enough…" he trailed off weakly, and left me standing there, alone. I felt as though someone had just dumped a bucket of cold water on my head. He was wrong, of course. Perhaps I did pity him, perhaps I was trying to save him, but I did _not_ hate him. But how could I convince him otherwise? Erik was a pig-headed man. I wondered if he would ever forgive me.

Breathing deeply, I entered the dining room. I expected Erik to show evidence of our fight, but his composure remained as stolid and majestic as ever. He did not even acknowledge my entrance. The meal went on in silent fervour, every once in a while the Vicomte, Mademoiselle Perrault, and Etoile piping up, but they were quickly silent. Eventually Raoul managed to keep a steady flow of conversation with Etoile, and Erik watched them like some sort of jealous bird of prey. Eventually, he stood up, leaving the room, and returning shortly with an old case and a package of new, sharp pencils. "These are for you," he said to Etoile, as tenderly as he could muster. Etoile was delighted over the pencils but puzzled over the case. She opened it slowly. Inside was a beautiful old flute. She ran her fingers against it gently.

Erik reached over, taking the three segments of the instrument and putting them together. He then put it to his lips, and played three clear, resonant notes. Etoile clapped her hands, and Erik handed it to her. Her fingers tried to mimic the position her father's had been in, but were yet too small to do so comfortably. Erik smiled, but it was a slow, tired smile. "We can play more tomorrow. Right now, it is time for you to go to bed."

"I don't want to," Etoile protested. "I want to stay here with you and Uncle Raoul."

"Nevertheless," Erik responded, "to bed you go." He scooped her up and turned to go. The Vicomte cleared his throat.

"Can I…Can I put her to sleep?" he requested hesitantly.

Erik stopped. He thought for a while. Then, he replied, "I suppose that would be acceptable," and deposited the twisting toddler into the Vicomte's arms.

Erik and I looked each other in the eyes, neither of us breathing or blinking. Mademoiselle Perrault appeared uncomfortable.

"I hope you do not really think what you said, and if you do that you still trust me enough to accept my assurance that it is not true."

"Whatever the case, I think it would be wise to part company for this night now."

"I can agree to that."

I left with the Vicomte, escorting him back to the surface, and we went our separate troubled ways: he, home to his wife; I, home to my empty room


	12. Another Man's Treasure

**Here's a little shorty for you, before I go to camp, as a peace offering for taking so long with the other update ****J As prompt as I could manage! **

**Stephanie- Oh bugger! Thanks for spotting that. I'll have to remember to fix it when I get back. That's what I get for not going back over my story before writing a new chapter.**

CHRISTINE

"Raoul! We're back!" I shouted up the stairs. I had just returned from the doctor for the third time that month. Now that Verrill was on his legs, and fully mobile, it was becoming harder and harder for us to keep him out of trouble while going about our daily business. Just two weeks ago, he had banged his head on the fire place and acquired a bleeding cut in his scalp, and less than one week ago he had run right into a chair that had been moved from its usual position, which had him seeing stars for the rest of the day. This time, he had stepped on a pin that had been knocked onto the floor, which lodged itself with vigour into his foot.

It was by pure coincidence that at the hospital I had run into Meg Giry, former captain of the Paris Opera Corps du Ballet. Former, because she had shattered her ankle.

Apparently, she had come all this way because her mother knew a doctor that had moved out from Paris that had treated a similar injury for her. Meg and I had been good friends at the opera, and I felt terrible. But then, an idea occurred to me. "What were you planning on doing, now that you can't dance any longer?" I asked her.

Meg glowed red for a moment, and she stammered, "I…well…I was thinking…it's awfully stupid, Christine…never mind, then. I suppose I could take up…sewing…or something…or work in a factory…or perhaps just marry richly like you…Sorry! I didn't mean it to sound that way! I just meant—"

"No! It's alright! Really, Meg, I know what you meant," I cut in. "But I was thinking, Verrill, you see, could use some extra supervision. This is our third trip to the hospital this month."

"Three!" said Verrill proudly, displaying the corresponding number of fingers.

"Yes dear," I said absently, patting him on the head. "He doesn't see, so when things get moved about and he isn't expecting it, it gets quite dangerous for him."

"He can't…pardon?" Meg said, frowning.

"See!" shouted Verrill jovially. "No see! No, no, no! See! See!"

"You mean…he's blind?" Meg asked. I nodded my ascent. "Oh, Christine that's terrible!"

"I thought so at first two," I replied, thoughtfully, "but he's none the wiser, and really, he's quite a normal child, with a few more cuts and scrapes."

"Mommy!" Verrill shouted.

"Sssh, Verrill, mommy is talking," I told him as sternly as I could manage. Raoul and I promised each other not to indulge Verrill any more than a regular child. We didn't want him being spoiled. But still, sometimes he proved awfully difficult to scold. "So, I was wondering Meg, if you could be a sort of…nanny to him?" Meg made a face at the word. "Of course, we wouldn't _call_ you the nanny, or anything like that," I added quickly. "You could live with us, and be a member of the family. We could sing the old opera music again! Verrill would love that!"

"Oh, Christine, you know I sing like a sparrow," laughed Meg, but I felt I was winning her over nonetheless.

"Nonsense! Try and guess who Verrill and I got to sing. Raoul! And he's actually quite good; he's just very shy about it. It's so sweet!"

"Now that is something I'd want to hear," she smiled. "The Vicomte Raoul de Chagny's hidden talent!"

"Oh, and you will! You will, as long as you come to work for us. Will you Meg?"

Meg thought for a moment. "Do you have a piano?" she asked. I must have displayed my curiosity at this enigmatic statement, for she quickly added, "just for curiosity's sake!"

Although I found this request to be rather odd, I truly wanted to win her over. "Yes," I said, "though no one plays it well."

"I'd love to," she replied cheerfully, and I took a deep breath of relief. "Come, we can speak to my mother straight away!"

"Your mother?" I asked, faltering. Madame Giry stood in my mind as a dark, foreboding figure, even after several years away from her stringent command. She had always plainly displayed exasperation for my inaptitude at dancing every chance she got. She was always going on that singers underestimate the importance of dance in their performance, that she could not even teach the simplest steps to the vocal chorus, for we were all horribly pigeon-toed and lazy. My clearest memories of her involved shouting and the banging of her heavy walking stick on the stage floor. I had never spoken to her without being spoken to, afraid she would simply devour me with naught but a single look.

But Meg was already off, limping sadly with her crutch and her set ankle dragging. I followed her reluctantly, fearing the worst.

I braced myself as we turned the corner, and the dark empress stood there, just as I had remembered her. She was still clad completely in black, and had her arms folded in her familiar pose of impatience. Most importantly, she had come accompanied by the infamous walking stick, which rested in the crook of her elbow. I felt my heard race, and shuddered in spite of myself. I am a woman now, married and self sufficient, I told myself defiantly, straightening and looking her in the eye. I need not be afraid of a mean, old ballet mistress! But then she spoke, and I recoiled in spite of myself once more.

"Yes, Meg?"

"You remember Christine, mother?"

"Of course. Of course I remember," Madame Giry said. She smiled, but made no move to shake my hand or offer a similar gesture of greeting. I smiled weakly back.

"And this is her son, Verrill," said Meg, motioning toward Verrill, who smiled widely and shouted, "hi!" Verrill did not wave, as this was a learned behaviour, and he lacked an example of it to imitate.

"Charming," Madame Giry remarked. Verrill turned his ear toward her, which, rather than looking someone in the eyes, was a sign that he was listening.

"He can't see," Meg muttered, confidentially. I felt myself blush redder and redder.

Madame Giry nodded.

"And she says that she and her husband will give me a job looking after him," Meg said. Madame Giry looked at her sternly. "I'll send all the money home," Meg whispered. I blushed even redder, knowing that that remark was not meant for my ears.

"I suppose that would be acceptable," said Madame Giry slowly. "You plan to stay here, Meg?"

"That would make the most sense, wouldn't it?" Meg sounded relieved.

"What are you going to do about your things?"

"Oh, Raoul and I can take her back to get them when she gets that setting off of her ankle. Until then, she can just borrow from me. I'm sure we're about the same size," I answered, the words tumbling out of my mouth like water spilling out from behind a breached dam. I couldn't resist the urge to take a deep breath and stare at my feet the moment the last word was out of my mouth. I half expected Madame Giry to whack the floor with her cane and scold me.

"Well, then," said Madame Giry. "We are settled, no? I will see you, Meg, when you come to Paris. Goodbye." She gave her daughter a rather stiff hug, if it could even be called that, though Meg squeezed her back with plenty of sincerity. It didn't surprise me that Madame Giry was not given to public displays of affection.

Raoul was somewhat surprised to see Meg, but seemed to think the idea was excellent as well. I had a feeling that his sick friend was wearing on his conscience more than he was admitting. He had returned the night of Verrill's birthday, or rather, the morning of the following day, looking even more disgruntled than when he had left. He spoke very little for the next week. Gradually, he had returned to his normal, pleasant self, but still I wondered. Perhaps his sick friend had been some former lover? Or perhaps someone he still had to reconcile with? There was more to this affair than he would reveal, but I was no sleuth, and remained in the dark on the matter. I decided, as was my usual way, to allow him the benefit of the doubt, and promptly forgot the matter with the arrival of Meg.

Verrill seemed to take to her well enough, though he still preferred Raoul and I. Meg tried to sing to him, but her thin, weak voice only served to arouse shouts of, "Mama! Mama!" Though I was sorry to Meg, this secretly pleased me. I did selfishly enjoy, to an extent, having my son to myself.

Meg became incredibly swift with her crutch and her bad leg, and was always able to seize Verrill from potential trouble faster than most grown woman with all their health about them. She did her job with effort, and conviction, and meanwhile was a just enjoyable to have around. She was always bubbly and talkative, and just as ready to listen to worries as impart her own upon you. Having her live in our house was almost like being back at the opera; there was chatter, gossip, and music all about.

I was quite surprised that she was able to keep so bright with her entire career ruined by that broken ankle. I suspected denial; however, Meg's furtive glances at the piano were not exactly in line with this theory. I wondered about that. Hadn't I heard her play once? She did play. I remembered that. But she had always spoken with spite toward anything that was not dancing, including her mother _forcing_ her to take those tedious piano lessons.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of me, and while we poured over a rather explicit romance novel with Verrill rotating between our laps, savouring those girls' hours when Raoul was out of the house, I raised the innocent question of whether she'd like to play the piano.

She looked startled, but moved toward the piano bench and sat upon it slowly, as though it were a gilded throne. She carefully adjusted her posture, curving her fingers gently over the keys. She began to play, slowly, a few warm up exercises. Verrill, who had showed interest when he realized our change in position was now positively ecstatic. He kicked at me mercilessly, but silently, until I put him down. As soon as his feet hit the floor, he ran over to the edge of the piamo, and pressing his ear up against it, listened intently and delightedly. Meg did not play very much, or anything very intricate at all, but nevertheless, Verrill was enthralled. Now here was a form of sound he had not heard before. When Meg decisively shut the lid over the keys, and the music ceased, he sat down and whimpered, "more….more!" for a good five minutes. When neither of us responded, he reached out to assure himself that we were still there. Then, to my surprise, he wandered over to twine himself about my legs, but Meg's.

"Aww, he's adorable! Well, Verrill, you may consider yourself the only person in the world who enjoys my playing, myself included! I must say that it is an honour to be lauded by a critic whose opinions carry such weight!" She scooped him up into her lap, and he grabbed a handful of her silky, blonde hair and began fiddling with it and sniffing it. I forced back the jealous bile that was rising in me, and laboriously put on what I knew to be a rather unconvincing smile. But then, he slid back down, and toddled over to me, pulling at my skirt, and a real smile broke across my face.

That night, the only word that would come out of Verrill's mouth was "Sing!" He shouted so persistently that we feared we would never be rid of it unless we acquiesced to his demands. We all gathered about the piano, and I found a rather simple duet for Raoul and I to sing, Nel Cor Piu Non Mi Sento. Raoul and I stumbled on the unfamiliar words, and Meg staggered through each chord in the accompaniment, frequently getting lost, or correcting herself with a particularly loud chord that made me jump. However, Verrill, ignorant to our complete incompetence, lay stretched across the floor, flat on his back, in a state of utter contentment.


End file.
